Keeping Time
by Aietradaea
Summary: What if the Daleks had found out that two Time Lords survived the Time War? This fic starts out by combining "End of Time" and "Victory of the Daleks", and is readable if you haven't seen them. It's a story in its own right - only minor spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** The rights to Doctor Who? Well, you know what it's like - new fanfic, all that paperwork... I think it's down the back of the settee; I did have a quick look - I found a pen, a sweet, a bus ticket and...uh...nope, no rights to Doctor Who. Huh. Guess they must still be with the BBC.

**Summary:** What if the Daleks had found out that two Time Lords survived the Time War? This fanfic basically starts by combining the 2009 Christmas special "End of Time" with the season five episode "Victory of the Daleks". You don't need to have seen either of those episodes to understand this.

**Warnings:** Hey, there's Daleks. Warnings for exterminations, obviously. There's also the Master being his charming self, although that'll be no worse than he was in "End of Time". And, as usual for my longer fics, I do address insanity in some detail.

A bit of patience might be required at first in this fic, since for a number of reasons (namely making the whole thing flow better, and making it readable for people who haven't seen or can't remember "End of Time"), I've retold quite a bit of the beginning of "End of Time" part one. It _will_ move into AU territory and become a story in its own right, don't worry - but for the initial chapters, much of it might sound awfully familiar. I've split it up so that there's something original in each chapter, though.

As for canon...well, the _details _are all accurate - I've just gone and...let's say, put my own spin on some of the ideas in the canon episode. Stirred it up a bit, added some Daleks, tossed in a bit more angst and just a _dash _of insanity...

...best served hot! :D

* * *

**Earth, 2009:**

The December air was cold, biting at the cheeks and throats of last-minute Christmas shoppers who milled through the festively-lit streets of London. Fairy-lights adorned every shop window and doorway; overhead, tinsel was wound around power-lines, glimmering in the light from the street lamps; and outside one shop, below a towering Christmas tree, a brass band were piping out a cheerful rendition of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" to the passing shoppers.

One shopper, arms laden with carrier bags, nodded amicably at the people he passed. Although wrapped up warmly in a heavy coat and woollen hat, his breath came in foggy billows – if it didn't snow tonight, there would certainly be a frost in the morning. Wilfred Mott wrapped his chilled fingers around the handles of his bags. Carols…lights…presents… He paused for a moment beside the brass band, drinking in the familiar sounds of the season – but even there, bathed in the glow of the tree lights, surrounded by the merriment of Christmas, he felt inexplicably uneasy. Something gnawed in the pit of his stomach, an icy weight of premonition and dread.

It had started with the nightmares. Every night, the same dream had haunted him for some time now. He knew that Sylvia's sleep, too, had been troubled – if nothing else, the extra half teaspoon of coffee in the mornings gave it away – but, stoic as ever, she had said nothing. Perhaps she didn't even remember once daylight returned. Wilf himself could barely recall much more than that there _had_ been a nightmare.

Briefly, a memory flashed before his mind's eye, bringing with it the terror of the darkness and the nightmares. A face, a voice – a man, laughing in triumph, with a glint in his eye that sparked with insanity and power. Taken unawares, Wilf recoiled at the vividness of the vision, his breath catching in his throat. It passed as quickly as it had struck him, and at a concerned look from a woman, he hastened to compose himself and sent her a friendly nod as she passed him. Still, he shivered, and not from the winter chill that hung in the still air. It was getting late, and he made to hurry home, but he had barely taken two steps forward when something caught his eye. He couldn't be certain how, but his attention had landed on the bell tower of a grey stone church some way ahead. Perhaps it was the distant sound of the church choir, which could be made out now that the brass band were packing up; perhaps it was just almost-forgotten memories of sleepy Sunday mornings as a boy in church with his old grandmother, who had died before the Second World War. She had never lived to see her grandson standing tall and proud in his new military uniform with the cold metal of a revolver in his hand. Before he knew it, he found himself heading towards the ancient steeple.

Inside the church, the air was musty with the odours of damp pew cushions and yellowing hymn books. Almost subconsciously, his hand moved to his head and removed his hat. The choir sang on, their lilting voices washing around the candlelit church in a soft wave of sound that rose and fell with Wilf's breath as he made his way slowly down the aisle. Above the altar, a stained glass window was illuminated by the street lamps outside – and there, almost hidden by the surrounding saints and religious figures, was a tiny but unmistakable image that took Wilf's breath away.

There was no doubt about it – it was the TARDIS.

"They call it the legend of the blue box."

Wilf turned, startled, to see a woman standing in the aisle, her expression solemn. She was dressed in white with a buttoned, smart white blazer and simple necklace; something about her gave Wilf the impression that she was older than he could guess from the streaks of grey in her hair.

"Oh – I…" Wilf took a moment to gather his thoughts, and his gaze drifted back to the stained glass window. "Never been in here before – I'm not one for churches. Too cold."

"This was the site of a convent, back in the 1300s," the woman continued behind him, and he turned back to face her. "It's said a demon fell from the sky. Then a man appeared – a man in a blue box." For a moment, Wilf smiled, lost in bittersweet memories, and the woman smiled back. "He smote the demon, and then disappeared."

"That's a bit of a coincidence," Wilf muttered, raising his eyes once again to the window. What a coincidence, the woman could not possibly guess.

"It's said there's no such thing as coincidence. Who knows – perhaps he's coming back." Facing away, Wilf missed the smile that passed across her face as she spoke, but her words struck a chord of longing in his heart that he felt every time he looked at his granddaughter.

"Oh, that would make my Christmas!" he said vehemently, and turned.

The woman had vanished.

Unsettled, his stomach lurched. The choir had fallen silent, and not a sound from the streets outside penetrated the stone walls of the church. An icy prickle ran down his spine as he scanned the dim hall and saw no sign of the woman. It was as if she had never even been there. Again, Wilf shuddered with almost imagined horror as the manic laughter from his nightmares passed through his mind, and he screwed his eyes tightly shut, as if that could block out the face that seemed to taunt him from his memory. But a last look at the painfully familiar image of the TARDIS in the window, and he knew what he had to do. It was a long shot, but he had to try – after all, what if the woman had been right?

_"It's said there's no such thing as coincidence…"_

...

**Ood-Sphere, 4226:**

Snow was falling over the rugged landscape of the Ood-Sphere as the TARDIS materialized with its distinctive wheezing groan. Curved stone arches, rocky slopes and towering grey mountains were blanketed in white, and the powdery snow whirled in little eddies around the silent figure of an Ood who watched as the time capsule gradually became solid. Eventually, the door opened and the Doctor emerged, leaning around the door frame as if checking his surroundings. He was clad in his usual brown suit and trenchcoat, but a garland of pink blossoms was strung around his neck and a straw hat covered his unruly hair. Through dark sunglasses, his eyes fell on the Ood.

"Ah! Now…sorry. There you are!" he exclaimed, stepping out into the snow and swinging the door shut behind him. "So, where were we? I was summoned, wasn't I? An Ood in the snow, calling to me." He shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled with a casual air towards the Ood, who remained silent, watching and still waiting.

"Well, I didn't exactly come straight here. Had a bit of fun – you know, travelled about, did this and that…got into trouble – you know me! It _was _brilliant…" He was rambling, he knew – and the Ood knew it too, that even a Time Lord would resort to such an insignificant way of holding back time if it meant prolonging the inevitable for just this final stretch. Eventually, he reached the Ood and paused, clearing his throat.

"Anyway. What do you want?"

The Ood raised its artificial communication globe in one hand.

"You should not have delayed."

"Last time I was here, you said my song would be ending soon," the Doctor replied. "And I'm in no hurry for that."

"You will come with me," the Ood commanded in its flat voice.

"Hold on – better lock the TARDIS," said the Doctor, rummaging in his pocket and pulling out a key which he pointed behind him. The light on the roof of the TARDIS flashed and it emitted a high-pitched bleeping sound.

"See – like a car!" the Doctor grinned, holding the key up for the Ood to see. "I…I locked it like a _car_," he repeated, when the Ood made no response. It tilted its head to one side, blinking in disapproval. "That's…funny. No? Little bit?" Impatient, the Ood turned and began walking away, and the Doctor shoved the key back in his pocket with an exasperated sigh. "Blimey – try to make an Ood laugh…"

The snow crunched underfoot as the Doctor followed the Ood through a narrow ravine, still undeterred in his futile attempts at conversation.

"So, how old are you now, Ood Sigma?" he asked lightly, removing his hat for a better view as they rounded a snowdrift and stopped short at the astonishing tableau that met them. Elegant stone buildings filled the valley – tall columns that spiralled upwards to point into the sky, the gaps between them spanned by craggy yet perfectly carved granite arches and bridges.

"Magnificent!" he breathed, beaming with pride. He nudged Ood Sigma with his elbow. "Oh, come on – that is! Splendid! You've achieved all this in how long?"

"One hundred years," Ood Sigma answered expressionlessly, and the Doctor's smile vanished abruptly.

"Then we've got a problem," he said, all trace of joviality gone from his voice. "'Cause all this is _way_ too fast… Not just the city – I mean your ability to call me, reaching all the way back to the 21st century. Something's accelerating your species way beyond normal…"

"And the mind of the Ood is troubled," Ood Sigma added.

"Why? What's happened?"

"Every night, Doctor – every night, we have bad dreams."

...

**Earth, 1941:**

The sirens wailed, an undulating cry that chilled the citizens of London to the bone, signalling an approaching air raid. Across the city, lights were extinguished until only the smouldering embers of previously bombed buildings stood out in the darkness. Here and there were momentary glimmers as families hurried across their gardens to the safety of bomb shelters.

Far below ground, the strategists and coordinators of the war effort waited in the Cabinet War Rooms with bated breath. This was the worst part – the waiting. Between air raids, day or night, the frantic pace of activity left no time to dwell on thought. But then the sirens sounded, the lights were extinguished, and there, in the stifling dark, all they could do was think. And wait. Around them, they could make out distant explosions, some closer than others and all sending their hearts leaping into their mouths. At any minute, it could all be over; for all too many people across London, it already was. No matter how complete the blackout, there would always be as many lives extinguished as lights. They could only hope that the beacon of hope remained alight for Britain.

Blanche Breen had removed her headset and placed it on the table, and was nervously gnawing the tips of her fingernails. Feeling a hand touch her arm in the darkness, she flinched with a muffled gasp, and then relaxed as the voice of another young woman – she couldn't make out who – whispered in her ear.

"Squadron 41 is to be deployed in three days. I thought you should know." Blanche's chest tightened with fear, and she found her hands fumbling in the dark to grip the arm of the young woman who had spoken.

"Reg…" she murmured.

"I'm sorry, Blanche." The voice sounded strained, choked – and so young. Blanche felt concern wash over her.

"How are you holding up?" she whispered back.

"I…" The young woman's voice cracked, and she hesitated. "I…oh, Blanche, I can't sleep. There's these dreams – nightmares – and I can't remember them, but…" As she trailed off, Blanche drew in her breath sharply. She, too, had had restless nights, and the fear which ran cold in her veins at the memory was comparable only to the low rumble of the explosions that now rent the night air.

"I've had nightmares too," she confessed. "But we must stay strong."

"Quite right," the gruff voice of Winston Churchill snapped from across the room. "This war affects us all." There was a whirring hum, and Blanche drew back as one of the Ironsides glided past, the end of its eyestalk shining blue through the blackness.

"You've had bad dreams too, sir?" the voice of a young man boldly spoke up. The Ironside's eyestalk swivelled to face Churchill, and Blanche had the unsettling impression – not for the first time – that the machine was listening. Not merely taking in the voice pattern and analyzing for instructions – _listening_, hearing the words and understanding.

"This war affects us all," Churchill repeated. "But that's what binds us together as humanity. We will stand shoulder to shoulder, and we will rise against all fear until our enemies have been vanquished."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Don't own Doctor Who - also, don't own a couple of lines from Mike Oldfield's "Five Miles Out" that I just couldn't resist slipping into the dialogue here. My affectionate little tribute - the mood for the second part of this chapter came from "Tubular Bells" (stick it on the record player if you plan to take 50 minutes to read it!).

Thanks to Brownbug, Ilssii-Koschei and TheMasterOfTime for your reviews. :)

Also, a double - no, triple - thanks to one very awesome Brownbug, who betaed the second half of this chapter for me - and was a thoroughly _excellent _beta. :D I hope I've done your advice justice - it made all the difference to how I saw that part.

* * *

**Ood-Sphere, 4226:**

The Doctor took in his surroundings through a cloud of anxiety as Ood Sigma led him through the city and down into the valley, deeper and deeper until the midday sun was all but obscured and they walked through darkness in shadows cast by the towering city. In silence, they descended into the deepest reaches of the Ood city, where Ood Sigma took him into a stone amphitheatre sunk into the ground. Lit by the flickering orange light of candles, a circle of Ood surrounded an incense burner on an iron frame, and as they inhaled the fumes that trickled from it, the Doctor could make out words in the deeper, huskier tones of natural Ood.

"…returning, returning, returning…it is slowly returning…through the dark and the fire and the blood, always returning…returning to this world…"

The Doctor, led by Ood Sigma, approached the circle apprehensively, while the Ood continued as if in a trance.

"…it is returning, and he is returning, and they are returning…but too late, too late, _far_ too late…"

"He has come," one Ood spoke up, raising its head to observe the two newcomers.

"Sit with the Elder of the Ood, and share the dreaming," Ood Sigma instructed the Doctor, who made his way around the edge of the circle to where a space had been left, obviously intended for him to discourage any refusal.

"So...right…" he said, taking the seat, starkly aware of the collective disapproval of the Ood at his tardiness. "Hello." He forced a smile, glancing around the circle.

"You will join," the Ood began to chant collectively. "You will join, you will join…" They placed their exposed hind-brains in the folds of their robes and linked hands, and the Doctor lowered his eyes and raised his hands to meet those of the Ood either side of him.

Immediately, the telepathic link surged through him and a vision flashed before his mind's eye – a face, a man's laughter. He drew in his breath with a hiss and pulled his hands back, hearts pounding. That was _impossible_…

"He comes to us, every night," one of the Ood said gravely. "I think all the peoples of the universe dream of him now."

"That man is dead," said the Doctor hoarsely.

"There is yet more. Join us." Once again, the Ood formed the circle, and the Doctor forced himself to make contact with their gnarled hands. "Events are taking shape – so many years ago, and yet, changing the now. There is a man, so scared…" With the memory of that manic laughter echoing through his thoughts, the Doctor braced himself and opened his mind to the telepathic link. This time, the vision was not as forceful, and he saw an old man sitting in the living room of a house, wringing his hands, concern evident on his lined face.

"Wilfred! Is he all right?" the Doctor demanded. "What about Donna – is she safe?"

"You should not have delayed," cautioned the Ood, "for the lines of convergence are being drawn across the Earth. Even now, the king is in his counting house…" Another vision was presented to him – two people, both unfamiliar to him: a tall, powerfully-built man in a suit and tie, standing beside a young woman. The resemblance between the two was clear – father and daughter, perhaps – and against a backdrop of carved, varnished oak, cameras clicked and flashed while the two smiled.

"I don't know who they are…" said the Doctor, frowning.

"And there is another – the most lonely of all, lost and forgotten…" Through the Ood, the Doctor found himself seeing between iron bars into a dim, barren cell where a young woman sat on a prison bed, her breath coming in ragged sobs.

"The Master's wife…" the Doctor murmured.

"We see so much, but understand little," Ood Sigma's voice came from behind the Doctor. "The woman in the cage – who is she?"

"She was… It…wasn't her fault – she…she was…" the Doctor stammered, shaking his head. He had tried so hard to put it all behind him: that year aboard the _Valiant_, when the Earth had lived through unimaginable horrors and the Doctor himself had been confronted with the pain of being left alone yet again. Now, though, time was pressing – he couldn't afford any more delays, not with his time stream being tugged into the series of fixed points that he could already feel forming ahead of him.

"The Master – he's a Time Lord, like me," he explained, and the Ood met his eyes attentively. He drew a breath and prepared to relive the past. "I can show you." The Ood closed their eyes and allowed the Doctor's memories to flood their thoughts while he spoke. "The Master took the name of Saxon. He married a human, a woman called Lucy…and he corrupted her." A montage of images flashed through the telepathic circle – the Master, the man whose face they had all dreamed of; his wife, blonde and beautiful, wrapped in a passionate embrace with the Master; shining silver spheres ripping through Time itself and descending on the Earth in a hailstorm of blazing, slicing death. "She stood at his side while he conquered the Earth. I reversed everything he'd done so it never even happened – but Lucy Saxon remembered." A pistol shot rang out through their shared memories, and the Master was reeling back, bent over in pain as blood blossomed on his shirt while Lucy watched numbly, the gun held lifelessly in her slim fingers. "I held him in my arms. I _burned_ his body! The Master is _dead_!" the Doctor insisted, showing the Ood the funeral pyre as if to prove it to them.

"And yet, you did not see…" Now the Ood regained control of the telepathic circle and the Doctor saw himself walking away from the pyre…and then…no – it couldn't be. Something fell from the pyre and into the ashes – a ring, silver, with the Gallifreyan script that denoted a stored consciousness etched onto a green jewel. A hand reached down and plucked the ring from the ashes – a woman, who held the ring almost reverently, turning it over between red-nailed fingers.

"Part of him survived…" the Doctor realized. Horror descended on him, wrapping around his hearts with an iron grip. "I have to go!" he cried out, making a move to stand, but the Ood hands gripped him and pulled him back down.

"But something more is happening, Doctor," the Ood warned him. "The Master is part of a greater design, because a shadow is falling over Creation. Something vast is stirring in the dark…" They bowed their heads for a moment, and when they met the Doctor's gaze again, their eyes glowed crimson – something was inside the mind of the Ood, poisoning their collective consciousness. The Doctor stared with growing trepidation from one to another, held firmly in the circle. "The Ood have gained this power to see through time…because time is bleeding. Shapes of things once lost are moving through the veil, and these events from years ago threaten to destroy this future – and the present, and the past…"

"What do you mean?" the Doctor interrupted.

"This is what we have seen, Doctor," the Ood replied. "The darkness heralds only one thing: the end of time itself." Abruptly, the Doctor broke free of the circle and ran, hearts racing as he fled the stone amphitheatre, leaving the broken circle with the Elder of the Ood still dwelling in their haze of visions and nightmares.

"Events that have happened…are happening _now_…" they murmured.

...

**Earth, 1941:**

"Someone to see you, Blanche."

Blanche lifted her headset from her ears and raised her head to glance over at the door from where the voice had come. Across the crowded, hectic room, her eyes met those of a young man in military uniform who stood in the doorway, and her heart leaped.

"Reg!" she gasped, nearly dropping the delicate headset in her haste to shove it into the hands of the nearest person. She hurried over and threw her arms around him, burying her head in his shoulder.

"My squadron departs at dawn tomorrow," said Reg softly. "I came to say goodbye."

"Don't say it like that," Blanche whispered, her voice barely audible with the lump that had come to her throat. "It sounds so…forever." Reg took her hands in his and raised them to his lips with an encouraging smile.

"I'll be back before you know it," he reassured her. Blanche raised her head, and the fear in her eyes must have belied her thoughts as his expression became concerned. "Blanche, my love – when we return, we'll all be war heroes, and I'll buy you a house in the Yorkshire hills, where we'll have six children who will grow up knowing their parents did their part for their King and country. God help the Luftwaffe if they dare come between us." Through tears that blurred her vision, Blanche managed to force a smile, but it quickly faded and she shivered. It was a feeling she couldn't shake – cold dread that crept over her, the same chill that the night brought with its hazy, forgotten nightmares.

"But what if something should happen to you?" she breathed, and his strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her close into his comforting warmth. "I just can't help thinking…I've been having such _awful_ dreams, and…" Reg planted a kiss on the top of her head and held her reassuringly. His face, however, betrayed the unease that came over him at her words, and he turned his head away – only to find himself eye-to-eye with the glassy blue eyestalk of an Ironside. Disconcerted, he had to remind himself sternly that the bizarre metal contraption was nothing more than a machine, and he turned back to the young woman in his arms.

"Dream of me, Blanche," he whispered gently into her ear. "Dream of our children in that house in the Yorkshire hills." His warm breath tickled her ear, his nose brushed against her soft hair, taking in her scent – he wanted to carry the memory of her through the clouds as he crossed the Channel the next day – and as his head bent down, hers tilted up and their lips met as though by accident. Sharply aware of the eyes on her back, Blanche quickly pulled back. Already, the other people around the vast table were sending anxious glances in their direction and calls were coming into the War Rooms thick and fast. He stepped back and held her at arm's length, their eyes still locked.

"Goodbye," she mouthed, her throat suddenly dry. Her lips still tingled where they had met his, and a sudden chill coursed through her bones at the thought of letting him go – despite all his reassurances, she simply couldn't dispel the feeling of finality. The distance that would be between them by the next day was almost unimaginable – anything could happen, and all she would have left of him would be a letter with the King's official stamp, and the memory of that brief kiss. It could never be enough, but these fleeting seconds were her last chance to make it _something_. Before his hands could release her, she stepped forwards into his arms and their mouths came together once again, this time relishing the contact. Tenderness melted into lingering desperation, and when they eventually broke apart, Blanche thought her heart might burst with longing. Slowly, she made her way back over to the table, where a headset was pushed into her hands.

"…IMC, cu-nimb, icing, in great difficulty, over…" a tinny voice was saying in her ear, punctuated with static. From across the room, she watched with an ache in her heart as Reg blew her a kiss and was gone. She cleared her throat, and then spoke briskly into the microphone, almost glad to reabsorb herself in the hectic bustle of the war effort.

"This is Golf-Mike-Oscar-Victor-Juliet. Communicate, I repeat, communicate…"

Reg had torn himself away and stepped through the door quickly. He could almost feel the click of the door sealing at his back as if it had cut through his body; and turning to face the corridor, it was as if he was leaving some irreplaceable part of himself behind. There was a numbness in his chest threatening to tug him back but eventually ripping free to leave a raw, burning ache that stung his eyes until they spilled over.

Ignoring the damp spots which appeared on the sleeve of his pressed uniform jacket as his wrist brushed across his cheek, he forced himself to raise his head. The maze of doors stretched ahead of him, and he wondered which would take him out of the stuffy, hazy War Rooms.

"Do you require assistance?" a mechanical voice offered from behind him, and the Ironside glided up beside him. He swallowed hard before replying, but the leaden lump still pressed into his throat.

"Yes…yes, thank you. I wonder if you could show me out?" It felt strange, talking to a machine, but the thing seemed to understand and began moving silently down the corridor, Reg striding briskly beside it. About halfway to the end of the corridor, it stopped and turned towards him, advancing slowly. Reg turned his head – it was directing him through an open door at his back, and he obliged. Through the door, he was surprised to find himself in a tiny, bare storage room that contained only another Ironside. Perhaps the contraptions weren't as advanced as they seemed, he thought, making a move towards the door. The first Ironside had followed him in, and now stood blocking the doorway.

"Let me past," he ordered, but it remained where it was, too heavy to push past. Now the second Ironside approached him, closer and closer until he was forced to back away. Before he knew it, he was trapped with his back against the wall and the eyestalk of the Ironside inches from his face.

"We must investigate the suspected transmission into the humans' brains," it announced, the two lights on the dome of its head pulsing with its words.

"What?"

"Secrecy must be maintained," the first added. "Do not harm the human male." Reg blinked, wondering whether his impending deployment had affected him more than he had realized. The machines were speaking nonsense.

"Initiating brain scan," said the second Ironside, keeping him pinned back against the wall and raising its plunger arm towards his face. Perhaps they were malfunctioning, Reg realized. They had been in the process of testing a new technological development, and the new function hadn't been completely switched off. Any minute now, the scientific genius responsible for them would enter and deactivate them. He held his breath as the plunger reached his face. Tiny lights winked inside the black dome, captivating him, drawing him in…

"No conscious recollection. Accessing subconscious."

Seemingly from nowhere, a stab of fear struck him. Darkness…war…fire…and above it all, the echo of triumphant laughter that could only have come from a madman. It was the horror of the nightmares that he could never quite remember – and now, it returned in a rush and he broke out in a cold sweat as a face flashed before his mind's eye.

"Presence of temporally transcendent signal confirmed." Whether it was the Ironside's harsh electronic voice breaking into his thoughts or the sudden withdrawal of the plunger, Reg couldn't be sure. What had happened? The past few minutes seemed blurry, as though he had been walking in a daze. With a pang, he remembered his parting with Blanche – yes, that was the last thing he could be certain of. Somehow, in his grief, he had wandered into this dusty little room. Two Ironsides stood in the room, their eyestalks trained on him as if watching. He removed his hat and rubbed his temples – his head was aching inexplicably – before turning his back on the silent machines and hurrying from the room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Ah, see the first chapter if you want to read a disclaimer again. Can't beat that first one (probably 'cause I don't own most of it either!).

Many thanks to Brownbug, Ilssii-Koschei and ShirouHokuto for your reviews, as well as the people who have subscribed or favourited. Your confidence in what was originally quite an experimental fanfic is very reassuring! :)

By the way, this is the chapter that contains the minor spoilers for "Victory of the Daleks". Not sure what constitutes a spoiler for that episode, actually, since everything seemed to happen at once. Oh well - you've been warned, just in case.

* * *

**Ood-Sphere, 4226:**

Hearts pounding fit to burst, the Doctor hurtled up the zigzagging, candlelit paths of the Ood city. He had run for his life before, but this was different – this was a race against time itself, and he was already lagging behind. Later, he knew, he would be cursing himself for his arrogance and cowardice in putting off what had to be done, but now, there was no time to think, just to run as though all the Hordes of Travesties were at his heels. With ever-lengthening strides, he tore up the valley, barely slowing to take corners or leap cracks and boulders that appeared as if from nowhere before him.

Eventually, he emerged into the sunlight, which reflecting off the snowdrifts and ice dazzled him momentarily. His trainers sunk into the soft-packed snow, but he hardly broke his pace – he could feel every precious second ticking past, like the last grains of sand trickling through a sandtimer, the tolling of a grandfather clock as it chimed midnight. Ahead, the TARDIS loomed up from behind a snowdrift, and he pushed himself desperately to quicken his pace, his laboured breathing turning his throat to sandpaper. He pulled the key from his pocket and pointed it – the door swung open and he almost fell through, grabbing at the controls before he had even steadied himself. The door slammed behind him and the TARDIS dematerialized.

...

**Earth, 2009:**

It was one of the coldest nights yet in the little cell, and clad only in her thin singlet and cotton trousers, Lucy Saxon shivered. It had to be well after the middle of December by now – she couldn't be sure of the exact date. This would be her…only her second Christmas alone in prison now. She had to double-check that in her head – it seemed like so long ago now that she had been the pretty, naïve Lucy Cole swept off her feet in a whirlwind romance with charming, charismatic Harold Saxon; and yet, it could have been only moments ago that her fingers closed around that trigger and the shot sounded – the memory was burned into her like a brand. The sound had been like a thunderclap – but a distant one. Even now, when she replayed that moment in her head – and not a day had gone by when she hadn't – it seemed somehow disconnected, as though she were no more than a bystander. It was hard to connect anything these days, with the weeks of near-solitude broken only by infrequent visits from her more influential family members, as often as they could arrange with the security that surrounded her.

Yes – Christmases, they were the only way she could measure out the length of her incarceration to herself and convince herself that time was indeed passing.

There was a clink of keys outside the door and Lucy looked up, surprised, as the heavy iron door creaked open and light flooded into the cell. She found herself meeting the eyes of a heavy-set woman in black uniform, who beckoned her to her feet with a movement of her head. Lucy uncertainly rose – the woman at the door wore a strange half-smile, and there was an unmistakable air of restless anticipation about her and the other prison guards who waited in the corridor. The thought crossed her mind as she followed them down the arched, stone corridors that she might have been sentenced to execution, and she shivered.

The shiver became a shudder when they emerged into a hall lit by rows of flickering candles and two beams of moonlight that sliced through the dusty air to fall on a stone font in the centre of the room. The guards stood around the edges of the room, silent except for one, an unfamiliar woman in a black dress.

"Mrs. Saxon." Lucy looked around in alarm as guards passed her and went to stand around the room as if taking positions.

"Let me introduce myself," the woman continued. "I am your new Governor. I'm afraid the previous Governor met with something…of an accident – which took quite some time to arrange. Miss Trefusis, if you will…prepare." The Governor addressed the heavy-set woman, who crossed the room and brought forwards a bowl, which she set on the stone font while Lucy watched, wide-eyed, and the Governor continued.

"You kept your silence well, Mrs. Saxon. Your trial _was_ held in secret, with no jury. So…no-one knows who Harold Saxon was. Where he came from. Why you _killed_ him." The last words held a note of venom, and Lucy flinched. As she gave her next order, Lucy felt her fear confirmed – they were going to execute her for her crime.

"Make her kneel." A woman who had been standing near the door stepped forward and roughly shoved Lucy to her knees with one hand on her shoulder, before stepping back into position. Position? And there were the candles, and the stone font – was this going to be some sort of ritual killing? Or was this finally…no, they couldn't have… The thought flickered at the edge of her mind that even now, she had no idea what the _process_ would involve – but it was too soon, surely.

"There are those of us who never lost faith," the Governor said slowly, her voice dripping with hatred, eyes boring into Lucy as she stepped forward and looked down on her. "And in his wisdom, Harold Saxon prepared for this moment. He knew that he might die – and he made us ready." Lucy's eyes darted to Miss Trefusis, who had stepped up to stand beside the Governor, and then back to the Governor, whose voice was now husky with emotion. "Tonight, Mrs. Saxon…_he returns_!" Miss Trefusis extended her hand, and on one finger, something glinted in the moonlight.

The ring! His ring – Harry's ring – she would have known it anywhere, that ornate green and silver band with the strange symbols – how often had she listened to him absent-mindedly tapping out a repetitive rhythm of four on a table-top as his mind worked? Lucy's eyes widened, and she drew a long, shuddering gasp of horror.

...

**TARDIS, Time Vortex:**

Hurtling headlong through the time vortex, spinning wildly as it encountered eddies and ripples in the converging time streams it passed through, the TARDIS moved as though it too could feel its pilot's panicked urgency.

_Faster…faster…_ The time rotor was pumping at maximum capacity, the whole capsule on the verge of losing control as it careened through time, and still the Doctor pushed it harder, throwing levers and pulling handles until sparks flew from the console. Turbulence rocked the console room, but the Doctor barely paused to steady himself, continuing his frantic sidestepping dance around the control panel. On a screen, circles and chords whirled, spiralling and intersecting, and the Doctor eyed them nervously. Fixed points in time coming and going, surrounding his destination like iron filings drawn by a magnet. There was the Master's timeline now, approaching the Doctor's own, encroaching on the delicate spiral and threatening to push him back. Their time streams were utterly intertwined – they had saved and ended each others' lives so many times now that it was virtually impossible for one to cross the other's timeline even when years passed between their encounters. The TARDIS had sensed it too, and was struggling against the currents of time that tugged at it pulling the Doctor into line with the other Time Lord.

Just a few days leeway, that was all he needed. A few days either side of the causal nexus that dragged him off-course and into that spiderweb of fixed points in time.

_Come on, old girl – you can do it…_

...

**Earth, 2009:**

The ring was placed gently, almost lovingly, into the bowl on the stone font, and Lucy could only stare, paralyzed with fear, as the prison guards stepped forwards with jugs, the contents of which they poured carefully into the bowl.

"As it was written in the Secret Books of Saxon, these are the Potions of Life," the Governor intoned. At the words, Lucy felt her own voice return.

"Listen to me," she insisted. "Whatever he told you, you've got no _idea_ what you're doing."

"Miss Trefusis," the Governor interrupted as if she hadn't heard. "The catalyst." Their eyes shifted to Lucy, who recoiled.

"What are you doing?" Miss Trefusis was walking briskly over, and Lucy's voice rose in panic. "Leave me alone! Don-" A stabbing pain forced a shriek from her as Miss Trefusis gripped her hair and pulled her head back. Her sobs of protest and desperation were quickly muffled by a facial tissue that was pressed to her mouth.

"You were Saxon's wife – you bore his imprint," the Governor explained. "That's all we needed. The final biometrical signature…" It was all falling into place now – Lucy's own role, her part in the Master's life, was nothing more than a backup plan. Far from crushing her, though, the revelation only hardened her resolve. She had stopped him once; she could do it again if she must. Only this time, the price to pay would be more than her years in jail – and there was so much that could go wrong, so many ways that she could fail, and then the thought that she had been the instrument of the Master's return would be unbearable.

"You can't bring him back, you _can't_!" she pleaded, a tremor in her voice as the tissue was raised above the bowl and released.

...

**Earth's orbit, 1941:**

"His identity is known to the Daleks."

It was confirmed, then – the images that had been broadcast across time into the minds of the humans had come from a Time Lord. For a brief moment, the calculating minds of the Daleks experienced confusion. They had planned so carefully, covering their tracks with a convincing pretence, disguising themselves as technology of the time they had found themselves in when they fell through time and escaped the Time War. Even now, the android that they had planted had infiltrated the centre of the human war effort and was preparing to lure the Doctor into their trap.

This, however, had not been foreseen or accounted for, and they still required the Doctor's testimony. Once they had been identified by their greatest enemy, their ship's technology could activate and the new Dalek Paradigm would be born.

The two Daleks who had stationed themselves on Earth had cast off the green camouflage-shaded cloth and the Union Jacks below their eyestalks had been burned out with a laser, leaving a singed patch of misshapen metal. One Dalek positioned itself beside the Progenitor, which was still inactive and lifeless, the precious shell that held the future of their race in a tiny sample of pure Dalek DNA.

"It is the Time Lord known as the Master," the third Dalek announced suddenly as the ship's advanced computer finished processing the human neural activity that they had replayed into it and began to display a series of Time Lord faces. This revelation came as a surprise.

"He is an enemy of the Doctor," the first green Dalek pointed out, observing the screen. "He has allied with the Daleks in the past."

"He is a Time Lord." The third Dalek, temporarily designated leader and still plated in off-gold Dalekanium, extended its plunger to the computer's controls to begin locating the source of the signal. "All Time Lords are enemies of the Daleks. The Master will be exterminated."

"What of the Doctor?"

"The Doctor shows compassion for even his enemies – it is his greatest weakness," the leader replied. "His emotions will destroy him." A flickering alert from the computer screen drew the Daleks' attention – ORIGIN IDENTIFIED, it read.

"Time corridor establishing," the Dalek beside the Progenitor announced. Parts of the hastily altered plan were falling into place, and the Daleks prepared for the time jump that would take their ship into the 21st century. The Doctor could still be made to identify them, although they would have to re-establish themselves in whatever new period of Earth's history they found themselves in. Priorities had changed now. Two Time Lords had survived the Time War – but they were still outnumbered, and with the Master's death, the severing of the telepathic link between the two would surely weaken the Doctor for his eventual extermination.

"Time jump imminent." The engines of the ship whirred as they drew on their last vestiges of power. Lights dimmed, the computer screen flickered and powered off, and with the engine sounds escalating to a high-pitched whine, the saucer whirled and surged forwards into the time vortex.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I own a laptop, a flash drive and lots of bits of paper. They contain Doctor Who. Does that mean I own Doctor Who?

Woo! Loads of reviews this time! Thanks to Brownbug, Ilssii-Koschei, Omniac, ShirouHokuto and TheMasterOfTime. :D

Shameless self-promotion time! :) My oneshot fic "Out Of Time" (ID 6603645) was originally an idea cut from the end of one scene of this chapter, if you want something a bit less...tame.

* * *

**Earth, 2009:**

He surged back into consciousness in a blaze of whirling energy. Drawing on power from the chemical reactions of the potions in the bowl, the electricity in the air from the thunderstorm outside, even the life force of his followers who had carried out their instructions so loyally, he could feel his strength growing even before his form became solid. Barely more than a spectre, a wraith in the glowing mist that billowed from the bowl, he drained the life from the circle of humans who had so willingly – so mindlessly – given themselves for him.

"…his name is the Master!" one cried out, and at the sound of his name, uttered with such veneration, a feeling of triumph coursed through him. Once again, he had proven himself to be above the laws that govern the Universe.

_Never dying…never dying!_ The particles of matter swirled and multiplied, drawing information from the biometrical signature and the imprint stored in the ring – at exponential speed, they condensed inwards, and he found himself chanting the words as though they were a mantra.

"Never dying…never dying…" He had a voice! A physical form! "Never dying…_never dying_!" He opened his eyes, and his voice grew in strength until he was almost shouting the words in his elation – and then he caught sight of the horrified face of the young human woman who had been the key to his glorious return. He stretched his still-forming arms out to her, relishing the fear and awe written so openly on her pretty features.

"Ohh, Lucy, sweet Lucy Saxon! My ever-faithful! Did the Widow's Kiss bring me back to life?" She tore her eyes away from him and glanced at the prison guards, who had fallen to their knees as their life force streamed from them.

"You're killing them!" she protested. The Master looked down on his followers, feeling himself growing steadily stronger as they grew weaker, and he smiled.

"Oh, let them die. They're just the first! The whole stupid, stinking human _disgrace_ can fall into the pit!" Almost without realizing it, his voice had taken on a harsher edge as a familiar sound at the edge of his hearing grew in strength along with him.

_One two three four…one two three four…_

It escalated until it surrounded him, so tangible, so very _real_, beating in his ears until he raised his hands to his head, still half-hoping he could block it out.

"Can't you hear it, Lucy? The noise? The drumbeat – louder than ever before! The drums…the neverending drums…" Still, Lucy just stared, open-mouthed – gormless, pathetic, so like her.

_One two three four…one two three four…_

On and on, it pounded…and he welcomed it. It proclaimed his return; it was a heralding of his success; it meant that he was _truly_ alive!

"Ohh, I have _missed_ them!" He laughed – and then stopped as Lucy rose to her feet. Her whole demeanour seemed to have changed: a resolve and determination that he never would have thought she possessed passed over her face.

"But no-one knew you better than I did," she said, meeting his gaze. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "I knew you'd come back! And all this time your disciples have prepared…but so have we!" She spun around – and how could he not have noticed before? One woman stood beside the door who was not participating in his resurrection; shrinking back in fear, but forcing herself to remain calm, she handed something to Lucy, who turned back to the Master.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, and she held up the object – a tiny bottle filled with golden liquid.

"The Secret Books of Saxon spoke of the Potions of Life," she replied. Her tone was defiant, and a stab of trepidation hit the Master – that was not the Lucy he knew, that was the reckless confidence of someone who knew they had nothing to lose. "And I was never that bright, but my family had contacts. People who were clever enough…to calculate the opposite!" Slowly, she turned the lid of the bottle.

"Don't you dare…" the Master growled. The stopper came loose, and a note of panic entered his voice. "I'm ordering you, Lucy – you will obey me!" She raised the bottle; his eyes widened and he was suddenly gripped by fear – the resurrection was still proceeding, his new body had barely finished forming, the energy that was pouring into him was still unstable…and unable to move, he could only watch helplessly as she drew her arm back.

"'Til death do us part, Harry!" she spat, and flung the bottle of liquid. Instantly, pain seared through him, burning like fire in his veins. Briefly, he was aware that he was screaming, before his world exploded in a cataclysm of agonizing energy and light.

...

The TARDIS had hardly materialized before the Doctor had slammed on the handbrake and raced for the door. He emerged into a clear winter morning. The air was cool and calm, and carried the faint odour of smouldering. Before him, the burned-out ruin of a brick building cast its shadow over him. Broken beams and pillars were silhouetted black against the pale grey sky, a watery sunlight streamed through shattered windows and gaping holes in the charred brick walls, and the entire roof and much of the upper storey were gone, leaving a jagged, crumbling outline along the top as though the roof had been blasted off at great force.

For a long while, the Doctor stood in silence, sickened at the thought of the loss of life that must have occurred. If he had only been there, if he had only heeded the summons of the Ood sooner, if he had only been strong enough to face the inevitable fact that even a Time Lord could not delay his own time when it came. If only… But it was too late – _he_ was too late.

Something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Just by his foot, blackened and bent, lying in the rubble was a metal sign: "HMP BROADFELL". The prison that had held Lucy Saxon.

Squinting in the sunlight, he scanned the ruins once again, but all was still and deathly silent. The Doctor gritted his teeth, ducked under the police cordon that surrounded the prison, and began to walk.

...

Daddy had something special to show her.

As Abigail Naismith hurried down the wide corridor to her father's study, the servants who passed her smiled politely, keeping their eyes respectfully averted. She had no need to hide the anticipation on her face – everyone knew what she was longing to hear. They would be allowing themselves some excitement as well, of course – after all, the whole of Joshua Naismith's staff had been planning for months. When the news had reached them of the disaster that had occurred, Abigail had been crushed, and naturally, so too had the Naismith personnel. But her father was not one to let go so easily once he had something in his sights, and he had promised Abigail a Christmas like no other.

She pushed open the high, heavy door and entered the study to see her father at his desk, chin in hand as he thoughtfully stared at the screen of a laptop. He glanced up as she entered, and she crossed the room to peer curiously over his shoulder.

"I think we might be in luck, darling," he said. "It's the footage from Broadfell Prison the night it burned down. Take a look at this." They exchanged glances, and he reached forward and pressed a key on the laptop. On the screen was a video, mostly indistinguishable, a low-resolution security tape from a police file. Abigail could see flames, burning white-hot, flickering with orange and red and… She drew in her breath sharply. A black figure, visible only for a moment but unmistakably human in outline, flashed across the screen, running out of the flames and vanishing into the darkness.

"Someone survived…" she realized as the clip replayed, the figure darting across the screen again. "Do you think it's _him_?" Her hand tightened on her father's shoulder, and he looked up at her with an assured smile. "Oh, that would be _such_ a Christmas present!"

"You just leave it to Daddy," Joshua chuckled, rising to his feet. He put his hand under her chin, raising her head so that he could see the hope shining in her eyes, and then strode from the room, three attendants following a short distance behind. Abigail took one last look at the screen, still with its looping clip of that shadowy figure, before turning and hurrying after her father.

...

The temporal shift had not been executed as smoothly as the Daleks would have liked. There had only been enough power remaining in their damaged ship for one time jump, but the additional power required to trace and locate the signal they followed had meant that there had been some inaccuracy in making the journey. They had emerged from the time vortex into exactly the same geographical location that they had left, but according to the ship's readings, the temporal coordinates were slightly lower than planned. They were too early – the signal had not yet been sent.

This presented more than one problem, but the thought of failure was not an option. Once their location in time had been ascertained – the Earth year 2009, on a day the humans referred to as "Christmas Eve" – they set about efficiently connecting their scanners to a solar power source. However the Master was going to send that signal, he could not do it without the aid of some highly advanced, powerful alien technology. Locating that, they could track him down – and most likely also the Doctor, sooner or later.

Time was on their side – with the Time Lords outnumbered and victory certain, the new Dalek race would be born into a precedent of ruthless efficiency.

"Begin scan for non-Earth technology," the lead Dalek ordered.

...

The technicians raised their heads from the soft glow of their screens when the high double doors were pushed open. Mr. Danes, the butler, stepped through and made a brief bow, announcing the arrival of their employer, before stepping aside to stand, hands folded, awaiting further instruction. Joshua Naismith strode after him, with his daughter a few steps behind, and the technicians couldn't help but notice the broad smile on her face. Joshua, too, was beaming as he announced,

"Ladies and gentlemen, it seems help is at hand." He crossed the lush carpet of the foyer and entered the main hall, heels clicking on the tile mosaic beneath his feet. Along each side of the magnificent room, with its pillars and high, domed-glass ceiling, technicians at desks swivelled around on their chairs to watch.

"Christmas is cancelled," he continued. "Prepare the Gate." One of the technicians, who hardly seemed fazed at all by the news that they would be working over the holiday, wordlessly turned back to her screen and began to press keys. Her eyes expertly followed pale green symbols that ran haphazardly back and forth across the screen, fading in and out seemingly at random. At the carefully timed touch of the final code sequence on the keyboard, the symbols began to solidify and align themselves, and there was a fizzing sound from the far end of the hall.

Flanked by two helmeted guards, a massive construct of wires and shining panels stood perhaps three metres tall. Its two sides sloped gently inwards as they rose, arcing to meet in the middle, forming a tunnel through which sparks of electricity now coiled and flowed. A whirring that emitted from the power source in a containment chamber behind the desks rose in pitch, and lights began to flicker on down the length of the tunnel, casting a vivid blue and green glow out across the marble floor.

A single row of symbols lined up across the top of the screen, but it would go no further, and sparks still snaked their way between the panels of the Gate. The device was faulty.

Transfixed by the sight of the Gate powering up, Joshua and Abigail failed to notice the technician at the desk exchange a knowing smile with another technician who stood nearby holding a clipboard in one hand as he monitored the Gate.

...

"Non-Earth technology detected!"

Starting from their previous base of operations – the site of the Cabinet War Rooms of 1941 – the scanner had swept outwards from the centre of London and quickly honed in on a large human residence just outside the suburbs. A blinking red light on the screen indicated a hotspot of power with electromagnetic fluctuations that did not correlate with any known 21st century Earth technology.

Even if the technology was not being operated by a Time Lord, investigation was still a priority. It could well be a weapon, which in the hands of humans, would be an unnecessary distraction. Under Dalek control, however, it could be a useful resource, even if just for its power source.

The scanner locked the coordinates of the detected technology, and all three Daleks extended their plungers to interface with the machine, synchronizing their personal teleports. There was a flash of blue light and the three vanished, transmitting themselves to the surface of the planet below.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I won't own any of Doctor Who until the BBC drastically cuts their budget and decides to hire some random fanfic writer off the internet to do their novelizations of episodes and someone gives them my username. Alas, we live in grounded reality...

Thanks, as ever, to Brownbug, ShirouHokuto, TheMasterOfTime and Ilssii-Koschei for their reviews - much appreciated! :) Particularly to Brownbug for the concrit - I like to keep my fics pretty tidy, but things do slip through the net occasionally.

* * *

Shrugging on his worn green anorak, Wilf whistled up the stairs to where he only half-hoped Sylvia and Donna were listening.

"Just going down to the Lion's," he called. "Quick little snifter – Christmas drinks. All right? Ta-ta…" Without waiting for a reply, he quickly opened the front door and sidled out, unable to stifle a chuckle. From the doorstep, he glanced from side to side, and then pulled out his mobile phone and held it to his ear, hastily moving away from the house as he spoke rapidly into it.

"Paratroop One to Paratroop Two. We are mobilized, I repeat, we are mobilized. Rendez-vous 1300 hours. Over and out." He threw a quick look over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Sylvia standing behind him on the doorstep, hands on hips, and he felt his heart quicken with excitement. Serious as the situation was, the thrill that came with the risk of being caught still took him back to his schoolboy days. A pair of novelty reindeer antlers perched precariously on top of his hat wobbled as he jogged across the street and waved both arms in greeting to a coach that swung around the corner and headed towards him.

"Come on!" he grinned, beckoning as if directing the driver into the bus stop. "Wa-hey – shake a leg!" Someone inside the bus waved, and he did a little jig on the pavement, clapping his hands and bumping against the bus as it pulled in. The door hissed open to reveal a dozen or so pensioners of around Wilf's age laughing and applauding, and he climbed the steps with a cheerful "Righty-oh, come on, let's get going. Off we go!" The door swung shut behind him and the pensioners took their seats as the bus pulled away.

"Everybody all right?" Wilf greeted his friends. "Who's got the chocolates, then?"

Once the Christmas festivities and greetings were over, however, the mood quickly became solemn when Wilf rose to his feet, a sheaf of paper in one hand. The others carried similar papers, which had been handed out to them in the previous day or two. The chatter died down and all eyes were on Wilf as he began to speak.

"Right. He's tall and thin, wears a brown suit, maybe a blue suit…he's got a long, brown coat. Modern sort of hair – all sticky-uppy." He motioned with his hands, and several of the pensioners flicked through the pieces of paper, nodding. "Oh, and on page two, be on the lookout for a police box, exactly like the old ones." He turned the page and pointed to a line drawing of the TARDIS, as best he could remember it.

"I got locked inside one of them," one white-haired lady spoke up. "August bank holiday, 1962."

"Were you misbehaving, Minnie?" At the back of the bus, Winston, a good friend of Wilf's, leaned towards Minnie with a wink, his voice laced with an accent.

"I certainly was!" Minnie replied with a mischievous wiggle of her eyebrows. "Wa-hey!" The group laughed, but with the memories of those dreams that had returned last night still fresh in his mind, Wilf found himself unable to join in. Time was pressing – he could feel it in his bones – and the words of that woman in the church three nights previously only added to his sense of urgency.

_"…perhaps he's coming back…"_

"Yeah, all right, all right, now listen." He raised his hands for attention, cutting off the laughter. "This _is_ important – we have got to find him. Right? So phone around – phone everybody. Sally, will you get onto the bridge club? Right? Winston, you try the old boys. Poppy, we want you to ring…uh…the skiffle band, right? Between us, we've got the city covered."

"The Silver Cloak!" Minnie had been listening intently, and her eyes twinkled with anticipation.

"Yeah," Wilf agreed.

"Who is he then, this 'Doctor'?" Winston called out, meeting Wilf's eyes seriously. Wilf hesitated for a moment.

"No, I can't tell you that, I swear." He could see that the mystery had intrigued Minnie, but the others were exchanging doubtful glances. "Yeah, but answer me this: you been having bad dreams? All of you? Dreams you can't remember?" Silence and lowered eyes confirmed his suspicions. "Yeah, well that's why we need him. We need the Doctor, more than ever."

...

_Those poor souls_, the woman thought to herself as she scooped up two hamburgers with a spatula and tucked them inside freshly baked buns. Even looking out across the dreary landscape of the wasteland that her van was parked at the edge of brought a chill to her heart. As far as the eye could see, all was a washed-out grey, the frozen ground rising to mounds of rubble that almost matched the colour of the overcast, wintry sky.

_Imagine spending your Christmas in a place like this…_ She did her best to offer a cheerful smile to the two men who watched her prepare the burgers. Aside from a faded, battered coat and threadbare sweatshirts that they wore, the only warmth they would have tonight would be from a smoky bonfire in one of the rusting oil drums that were scattered about the abandoned building site nearby. A feeling of guilt crept over her as she remembered the Christmas roast that was waiting for her in the oven at home, but she quickly pushed it away. If nothing else, she could at least offer these people a bit of Christmas spirit to go with the food that she and her husband handed out to those less fortunate than themselves on behalf of a local charity.

"Onions with that?"

"Oh, yeah – go on, pile 'em on," one of the men replied, nodding enthusiastically. "What 'bout you, Ginger? Onions?" The second man, younger and with short-cropped hair, shrugged, and the first turned back to the van with an apologetic, "'E don't say much. Give 'im onions." The woman handed over the first burger with a smile and began adding the sizzling onions to the second.

"'E's down from Huddersfield," the first man continued.

"Well you look after him," said the woman. Behind the two, she could see a third man approaching, alone and black-clad, face concealed beneath a hood, and she nudged her husband with her foot to put on some more burgers. "And don't forget, tomorrow night – Christmas broadcast. President Obama," she explained at the first man's puzzled look, and he nodded. "He's promised to end the recession. Bad times will soon be over, Ginger!" She handed the second burger to Ginger with a glance over his shoulder at the hooded man who stood a short distance behind, head still lowered.

"Well, season's greetings to ye," the first man said amicably with a nod of thanks.

"And you," she called as the two departed. "Happy Christmas!" The hooded man had turned to watch them, and the woman leaned forwards across the counter to catch his attention. "Now, what can we get you, sir?"

"Everything," he answered hoarsely. Her smile faded as he turned towards her and she felt a shiver run down her spine. Sensing her sudden concern, her husband stopped tinkering with the oil vat and stepped up beside her, ready to deal with any trouble. The man raised his hands and pushed back his hood, meeting their eyes with an intensity that caused the woman to draw back in alarm. "I am…_so_…hungry…"

...

Just one of them would have been more than enough, the Daleks decided. At the sight of their sudden materialization in the courtyard of the grand estate house, half the human soldiers patrolling the grounds panicked and fled. The rest turned their machine guns on the Daleks, but to no avail – the hail of bullets dissolved as they entered the Daleks' defensive force fields. Working in unison, the three Daleks aimed their ray guns and methodically fired, eradicating the soldiers where they stood. Those who ran were struck in the back and froze for a brief moment, illuminated in the deadly glow, before falling lifeless to the ground.

At least one must have escaped, as an alarm began to sound from somewhere. An undulating wail rang out across the courtyard and thick steel doors concealed in the brick walls slid out to slam across the arched doorways with deafening clangs. Undeterred, the Daleks glided across the smooth, sweeping lawns, heading for the bulletproof steel barricade that blocked the main door into the mansion.

Inside, the guards sprang to attention, lowering their visors and raising their rifles when the alarm pealed through the hall. Their captain jogged over to the door and motioned Mr. Danes back as he peered around the corner. Abigail's eyes widened and she drew close to her father, hands on his elbow.

"Don't worry, darling." Joshua almost had to shout to be heard above the alarm. "It's probably only a dr-" He was cut off abruptly by the rattle of machine gun fire from outside that ceased as quickly as it had begun. For a long moment, there was an unbearable stillness, the guard captain exchanging a nervous glance with Mr. Danes, and Joshua placing a protective arm around his daughter's shoulders, drawing her close. Joshua found that he had been holding his breath, and let it out with a hiss. Suddenly, a resounding crash echoed up the hall.

"Stand back, sir," the guard captain instructed. "Mr. Danes, you take the domestic staff and head for the East wing."

"What's going-" Joshua began.

"I said _stand back_!" the guard captain barked, clicking the safety off his rifle. Taken aback, Joshua stumbled backwards towards the Gate, Abigail clinging to his arm. Mr. Danes had set one foot through the door, preparing to follow the captain's directions, when he fell back with a gasp.

"What in God's name is _that_?" The guard captain said nothing, but raised his rifle to his shoulder.

Unnoticed in the panic, two of the technicians had abandoned their monitors and vanished down the stairs beside the Gate. The door slammed behind them and, already on edge, a guard's finger slipped on his trigger, sending a rifle shot through the glass ceiling far overhead.

"Shut the door! What are you waiting for?" Startled, Joshua's voice came out shriller than he would have liked. The guard captain didn't even turn around, beckoning to the other guards, who hurried over.

"Seven inch reinforced steel didn't hold them – I don't think your door is going to make much difference," he snapped. "Better keep our visibility clear."

"But what _are_ they?" Mr. Danes's calm composure had faltered – his face was pallid and his voice shook.

"Hold your ground, men…" The guard captain spoke slowly, his voice held steady as three hulking shapes moved into view at the doorway.

"Exterminate," a metallic voice grated, lights pulsing on the domed crown of the middle creature. The two either side of it raised weapons of some description and emitted blinding beams of light that briefly lit the hallway, glinting off metal semispheres that dotted an impenetrable shell. One ray hit the guard captain, the other a guard who stood beside him – both screamed in agony and slumped to the ground, their rifles flying from their hands. Bullets rained as the remaining guards opened fire, but the three creatures didn't even hesitate, advancing into the room and returning the fire, killing another guard and two technicians instantly. Somewhere in the din of the alarm and gunfire, Abigail was screaming, and Joshua instinctively positioned himself in front of her, both of them backing steadily towards the Gate. The guards were beginning to panic now – even their rigorous training had not prepared them for this – but just as the three creatures aimed their ray guns to fire again, Mr. Danes stepped forward. His arms were raised in a signal of surrender, and although his hands shook just slightly, he faced the creatures straight-on. Their eyestalks swivelled to observe him; he swallowed several times and spoke, his voice taking a moment to be heard over the din.

"…take our technology, all of it – but please depart our planet. No more life needs to be lost."

"Daleks do not negotiate," the middle creature replied in a voice devoid of emotion. It raised its ray gun and fired, hitting Mr. Danes square in the chest.

Now, for the first time, the Daleks seemed to turn their attention to the Gate, moving slowly towards it and the two Naismiths. The one that had spoken, which was golden-bronze in colour, stopped a few paces in front of Joshua, while the other two, grey-green coloured, moved around them, apparently examining the Gate.

"Explain the purpose of this technology," the gold Dalek ordered. Although it was a good head or so shorter than Joshua, he felt as though it towered over him.

"We…we c-call it the Immortality Gate," he stammered, while Abigail clutched his arm, hardly daring to breathe.

"Explain," the Dalek repeated, its gaze trained on Joshua's face.

"It's a…it's a medical device. It repairs the body – but it's broken. We intended to repair it – we calculated that it could potentially repair a body permanently."

"Broad-scope biometric projectors indicate a diffuse range of action," one of the green Daleks said from behind them.

"What?"

"The human is mistaken or lying." The two green Daleks moved away from the Gate and faced the two Naismiths, enclosing them with their backs to the Gate.

"N-no – I swear, we have Earth's best scientists working on it," Joshua protested, shaking his head in confusion. He felt Abigail's hand tighten on his arm, but failed to see her eyes widen as something occurred to her at the Dalek's next words.

"This device is not from Earth." Joshua could only shake his head.

"You've come because of Harold Saxon." His daughter's voice was a lot more confident than his own – even the Daleks seemed to show surprise for a moment.

"Explain."

"He's not from Earth either," Abigail continued. "There's UNIT files on him dating back decades."

"I have connections in UNIT and Torchwood – we could-"

"Silence!" The gold Dalek's eyestalk swung back to Joshua, cutting him off, and then moved back to face Abigail, who now stood tall, meeting the creature eye-to-eye. She had their attention, and sensing that this would be their last chance, Joshua desperately hoped that their bluff would buy them at least their lives. "The name is not known to the Daleks."

"The UNIT files say he usually goes by false names," said Abigail hastily. "He often calls himself 'the Master'." There could be no doubt about it this time – her words had had an immediate impact on the Daleks, who drew back, the green ones turning to face their leader. Joshua's heart leaped, and he quickly seized the opportunity.

"We were going to find him to repair the Gate." The gold Dalek turned its attention back to him.

"This female can locate the Master?" it asked, and Joshua nodded vehemently, feeling beads of sweat trickle down his forehead.

"Yes – she's been researching Harold Saxon for months…my private soldiers have tracked him…we intended to capture him this very night. It's all Abigail's idea."

"Then we have no need of you."

It didn't come as much of a surprise, really. Joshua Naismith accepted it, assured in the knowledge that his Abigail, his bringer of joy, was – for now at least – safe.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** The Ninth Doctor chucked me out of the TARDIS for trying to go back and write "End of Time" before RTD... :( "You can't use time travel to go back an' claim the rights to _my_ life," he said to me. "An' don't even _think_ about bringin' the Master back - 'e'll only cause trouble."

Thanks to Brownbug, ShirouHokuto and Ilssii-Koschei for your reviews and teensy morsels of sympathy spared on Joshua Naismith and Mr. Danes!

* * *

It still wasn't enough… The Master had consumed every last morsel of food in the little charity kiosk, but it _still_ wasn't enough. Raging hunger still gnawed at him, demanding to be satisfied, urging him to eat and eat and eat. And he did – every mouthful he could find, every last scrap that he could scavenge in this desolate wasteland – but he _still_ needed more. It clawed at him from the inside, clouding his senses; but in a moment of clarity, desperately scrabbling through the contents of the now burnt-out kiosk for anything that remained, his ears picked up the sound of voices murmuring beneath the pounding drums. He straightened, cocked his head to one side – and then, as though some primal instinct had awakened in him, he found himself following it, stalking silently around a mound of rubble until he saw them. Two humans – the ones who had been at the kiosk before him. They sat with their backs to him in a pair of grey armchairs that spilled their stuffing through numerous tears in their worn fabric. Sheltered from the bitter December wind by a rusting scaffold, they attempted to warm themselves over a smoky flame in a dented oil drum.

The Master's muscles tensed, suddenly brimming with energy – he leaped into the air, impossibly high, before alighting on a stack of tyres behind the men. They turned in surprise; the Master hardly noticed. Realizing he still held the last remaining wrapped burger from the kiosk, he ripped into the paper and began frantically tearing bites out of it.

"Somebody's lively on his feet," one of the men commented. The Master barely heard, with the smell of the burger filling his nostrils, the taste of it in his mouth, the feel of the energy the food was giving him, even if it was quickly overwhelmed by the ferocious hunger.

"Starving," he mumbled through a mouthful. The two humans stared as he devoured the entire burger as though he hadn't eaten for a week.

"Now ye see, that's what ye don't wanna do," the older man said to the younger, Ginger, gesturing to the Master, who was by now licking the sauce off the paper, "eat it all at once. Tempting, I know. But if ye make it last, it can last all day."

It was all gone, the last of that delicious, life-giving food – but he was still _so_ insatiably hungry. He needed more…anything…

"…more…cheese and chips, and meat, and gravy, and cream and beer…" he began muttering, eyes darting to the two men, who had fallen silent, eyeing him warily. "…and pork and beef and fat…great big chunks of hot, wet, red…" He trailed off, eyes still fixed on the two humans. That meat in the burger had tasted so good…so sustaining, so full of energy. Yes, that was what he needed…

"Good fer you, mate," the older man said, tearing his eyes away and nudging Ginger. "Maybe we'd better be going." Ginger glanced at the older man, and then seemed to do a double-take back to the Master, squinting thoughtfully.

"Y-you look like that bloke," he observed, and the Master met his gaze. "Harold Saxon – the one that went…mad." A slow smile spread across the Master's face, which Ginger returned with an amicable chuckle.

Mad? Hah - they didn't know the half of it! The Master laughed, crumpling the paper and raising one finger.

"Now isn't that funny?" he replied, and Ginger nodded enthusiastically. "Isn't that just the _best_ thing of all? The Master of disguise," he ran a hand through his newly-bleached white hair, drawing the attention of the two men to it, "stuck looking like the old Prime Minister! I can't hide anywhere!" They were both staring at him now, the older man frowning thoughtfully – but the Master had sensed something, the approaching of someone, and his smile faded.

"He can see me…" he murmured. Not that it would matter if he had regenerated… "He can smell me. Can't let him smell me…" Seized by this idea, he suddenly began rubbing the paper across his mouth, almost obscuring his frenzied muttering. "…Doctor…got to stop the smell…the _stink_…the filthy, _filthy_ stink…" The two men grimaced, and the older one hastily rose to his feet.

"Ginger, come with me. Right now." Out of the corner of his eye, the Master saw the movement as they made to leave, and caught himself just in time.

"Because it's funny," he said as they passed him, stopping them dead in their tracks with a raised finger which he pointed towards his face. "Don't you see? _Look at me_!" They recognized him now, all right – he could see the fear that grew on their faces, and it thrilled him. So simple, so narrow-minded, these humans – didn't they know who he really was? The energy from the burger was now surging through his veins, and in a flash, it rushed to the surface, glowing out through his skin and for a brief moment giving him the visage of a grinning skull. Transfixed with horror, the two men were rooted to the spot as he continued, the pulses of dissipating energy punctuating his words. "I'm splitting my sides! I am _hilarious_! I am the _funniest_ thing in the whole wide _world_!" He laughed mockingly at their terror, and they broke away from the frightful, riveting gaze of the orbs in dark sockets that his eyes had become and ran, as he knew they would – ran like frightened animals, like the hunted beasts they were. The energy had gone – and oh, he was _so_ hungry! He stood slowly, watched as they passed the mound of rubble in the direction he had approached from, tilted his head to listen. One of them cried out, pleading, breathless.

"God 'elp us! There's this man-" The sound of their footsteps skidded to a halt – ah yes, they would have found the little surprise he left: the charred skeletons of the charity lady and her husband, still smouldering where he left them, leering out at the wasteland.

Well, they'd had enough of a head start. The Master couldn't wait any longer. His energy was depleted already, but he had enough for one more chase.

"Dinnertime!" he screamed.

...

In the deadened silence of the soundproof basement, the two technicians who had fled the hall nearly stumbled down the steep stone stairs in their haste to bolt the door behind them. One, a young woman, released her grip on the arm of the other and descended the rest of the way into the basement to hunch over a panel of controls. The other, a tall, gangly young man, remained at the top of the stairs, rubbing his arm and wincing.

"Wha- what's going on?"

The woman – Addams – whirled on him with an exasperated groan.

"Don't you pay attention to _anything_?" The man – Rossiter – blinked, baffled, and Addams pulled a PDA from the pocket of her lab coat. "No, of course you didn't. You were just standing there uselessly along with the rest of these…_stupid_…ugh!" She uttered a noise of disgust, and after pressing a few buttons on the PDA, tossed it across the basement to Rossiter. "Security cameras in the courtyard – and I'm not sure _these_ will be much use any more." With that, she raised her arm and pressed one finger on the face of what appeared to be a wristwatch; her curly blonde hair and pale skin seemed to dissolve around her, replaced by green skin studded with sharp spines. Drawing a deep sigh of relief, she stretched and flexed her fingers. Rossiter didn't bat an eyelid at her dramatic transformation, but nearly dropped the PDA in shock when he saw what was on the screen.

"B-but those are…those are…" He scurried down the steps and stood opposite Addams, who had returned to setting dials on the control panel. Flustered, he was jigging up and down with nervousness as he continued to stammer rapidly, his voice rising in pitch. "Those are Daleks! What are Daleks doing here? What are they going to do to _us_? Do they want the Gate? Why are there Daleks here? What are Daleks-"

"I don't _know_!" Addams snapped through gritted teeth. "Will you stop that? I'm trying to set the teleport coordinates."

"We're…we're leaving?"

"Do you value your life or not?" Rossiter was silent for some minutes, and in the stone-walled basement, all that could be heard was Addams's fingers tapping on the keys.

"What about the humans?" Rossiter said eventually, tentatively nibbling his nails.

"Not our problem. They're the ones messing with things they don't understand," Addams muttered. Abruptly, she stopped typing and her fingers tightened around the edge of the desk as she looked up and met Rossiter's eyes. Her expression softened and she let out her breath with a hiss. "We can't do anything," she said more softly. "They're Daleks. We're not even trained in basic military protocol. All we can do is hope they don't trace the technology back to the Vinvocci." The lines of strain on her face deepened again, and she viciously punched in a final code with one hand, holding out the other to Rossiter. "Access tags." Rossiter started, scrambled in his pockets with both hands, opened and closed his mouth several times; Addams raised her head once again with a withering look, her spines quivering with rage.

"Well…well you just _grabbed_ me!" Rossiter protested. "I didn't even get a chance to-" Addams cut him off with a raised hand, eyes closed as she silently counted to ten. Mouth pressed shut in a firm line, she crossed the basement and climbed the stairs to put her ear against the door, and after a moment's hesitation, Rossiter followed cautiously. They held their breaths, straining to pick up even the slightest sound from the hall on the other side of the thick oak.

"N-nothing," he whispered. "I can't hear anything." Addams held a finger to her lips, and slowly, so slowly, pushed the door. Sunlight spilled through the crack, which widened by millimetres until she could put her eye against it and take in the perplexing sight that met her in the hall.

There were three Daleks – a green one appeared to be examining the nuclear power source in its containment booth, and another green one and a golden-bronze one stood before the Gate, surveying the rest of the hall. To Addams's amazement, there was movement and activity. A number of guards and soldiers were moving out the main doors bearing what looked like shrouded stretchers, and she shuddered to see that the monitors for the Gate were now unattended – she and Rossiter were the only technicians to survive. A pang of guilt bit into her conscience, and she had to avert her eyes for a moment. When she returned to scanning the hall, her gaze fell on one figure that she had overlooked. There, alone amid the grave to-and-fro of the soldiers, stood Abigail. The soldiers passed her without even a glance; she stared at each one with red, puffy eyes, but they barely even seemed to notice her.

Eyes locked onto Abigail, Addams failed to see that the golden-bronze Dalek's eyestalk had swivelled to face them, until Rossiter behind her emitted a squeak of terror.

"Identify yourselves," the Dalek ordered. Resigning themselves, they emerged from the doorway. A number of the soldiers had stopped their work and were watching, curious; Abigail's eyes widened, and Addams realized that she had forgotten to reactivate her shimmer.

"We're a Vinvocci salvage team," she replied. "We were repairing the Gate."

"Remove your disguise," the Dalek snapped, swinging around to face Rossiter, who flinched. He raised his wrist, which wore a watch-like device similar to Addams's, and pressed his finger to its face, his human visage also dissolving into green spines. Out of the corner of her eye, Addams saw Abigail press her hands to her mouth, stifling a gasp.

The two Vinvocci fidgeted nervously under the intense scrutiny of the Dalek for several long seconds before it appeared to make up its mind about them.

"The Daleks' priority is to locate the Master," it said. "You will monitor the power source." Addams and Rossiter couldn't help but breathe simultaneous sighs of relief, and didn't hesitate to hurry over to the glass containment booth, which was divided into two separate compartments, one of which contained the Dalek that had been examining the nuclear bolt. Rossiter entered the other side, pulling the door shut behind him. Above his door, a green backlit sign read "OPEN"; above the other, a red sign read "LOCKED". Rossiter pressed a large red button on the control panel and his door locked, releasing the one for the other booth. The Dalek emerged and joined the other two, and Addams quickly took its place in the second compartment, feeling that a sheet of radiation-proof Vinvocci glass between her and the Daleks would at least be some comfort.

The main door to the hall burst open and two guards entered. They strode down the length of the hall towards Abigail, keeping their heads slightly averted as they tried to avoid looking at the Daleks.

"Ma'am." Abigail was still fixated on the two Vinvocci, but at the sound of the guard's voice and the respectful – if apprehensive – greeting, she dragged her attention to him and struggled to regain some of her composure.

"We think we've located Harold Saxon, ma'am," said the second guard, and Abigail drew a shaky breath and nodded. The Daleks were approaching, and the guards glanced uncertainly at them, unsure if they should acknowledge the creatures, before the first guard spread out a map of London on a nearby desk. A number of red Xs labelled with dates spanning the past three days marked potential sightings, and one cluster of markings had been circled. It was this that he jabbed his finger at.

"It's an abandoned development site at the East end of London. We mounted surveillance cameras in the area within this radius of Broadfell Prison – these are the only positive identifications we've had." The two green Daleks moved forwards and examined the map, calibrating it with their memory of the aerial images of London on their ship's computer – and then, in a flash of blue light, they vanished, transported back to their ship to set the coordinates of their personal teleports. The golden-bronze one remained, heading back to the Gate while Abigail clasped her shaking hands against her chin and sank into a chair.

"Let's hope they don't find him, then," the second guard muttered grimly.

"Poor bugger," added the first, before adding a hasty apologetic nod to Abigail. "With respect, ma'am."


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** Gradually, I am at least owning more and more of the plot of this fanfiction...well, it's something...

Thanks to Brownbug, ShirouHokuto, Ilssii-Koschei and Son of Whitebeard - my ever-faithful reviewers! :D

* * *

_Here_?

From his vantage point on the crest of a low hill of rubble and earth, the Doctor surveyed the wasteland. Rubbish and refuse were piled into grey heaps across the landscape, with the only splashes of colour coming from skips and abandoned trailers. Here and there were stacks of building materials – bricks, concrete, piping – untouched for years and slowly rusting away or fading to become as colourless as the dusty ground. Seagulls wheeled in the murky sky, their cries ringing out across the still air, but apart from them, the place appeared deserted.

He was here, though. The Doctor had tracked the Master on foot from Broadfell, following that familiar sense of the other Time Lord's presence almost as though he were tracking a scent. On reflex, he inhaled deeply and held his breath, scanning the wasteland again for any sign of movement.

The Master was sitting among some discarded oil drums at the bottom of a mound of rubble when he sensed the Doctor's arrival. Abruptly, he sat up straight, throwing aside an old tramp's coat that he held in his hands and drawing back his hood. He inhaled, confirming – yes, it was the Doctor. Well, he supposed it was only a matter of time.

He rose to his feet and bent to pick up a length of iron pipe, which he hefted in one hand.

_Well done, Doctor – you've sniffed me out. _He raised the pipe over his shoulder and swung it into the side of one of the metal barrels with a deafening clang – and then again, again, again…

_One two three four…_

The sound shattered the silence that lay across the wasteland, and the Doctor pricked up his ears, turning his head this way and that to try and determine the direction.

_One two three four…_

There it was again – a deliberate rhythm of four. So the Master knew he was here. The Doctor turned and began to run towards the pounding beat.

_One two three four…_

The Master smiled as he sensed the Doctor begin to move towards him. In his ears, the drums continued, relentless and unchanging – but now…

_One two three four…_

_Can you hear it now, Doctor_? He flung the pipe to the ground and sprinted up the slope of the mound of rubble.

Weaving in and out of stacks of corroding metal beams, the Doctor could feel the distance between himself and the Master closing in. The clanging had ceased, so he followed his telepathic senses, honing in on the Master's unmistakable psychic fingerprint. He rounded a corner and skidded to a halt as his eyes landed on the peak of a towering pile of rubble. There, a slender black silhouette against the white sky, stood his long-time adversary. As he watched, the Master yelled out, a defiant shout of challenge, and the Doctor flinched in spite of himself. Suddenly, the Master crouched and sprang into the air, leaping a good thirty metres upwards before vanishing behind the rubble. The Doctor drew in his breath sharply and, gripped by concern, set off running with renewed urgency.

Hurtling across the loose gravel, the Master was moving with an agility that almost frightened him – no, it _exhilarated_ him. So much energy – it coursed through him, filling his muscles, pumping in his veins – and it felt so _good_! He was more alive than ever! He felt like laughing aloud even as he bounded across the wasteland – the chase was on. Atop a stack of steel bars, he paused and waited. From around a corner, the Doctor appeared, gasping for breath; the Master laughed, feeling his energy rush through him and glow through his skin, turning his flesh transparent.

"Please, let me help," the Doctor called out. "You're burning up your own life force."

Oh, how predictable. The Master smirked, deliberately allowing the energy to pulse out of him once more – and then, with a mocking laugh, he jumped down from the stack of bars and out of sight of the Doctor.

He didn't listen – he _never_ listened! The Doctor dashed after him, around the stack of bars and across an open space – where, to his confusion, he was greeted by the sight of Wilfred Mott, jogging towards him with outstretched arms. No time to waste, though – he could sense the Master moving away faster than he could run.

"Out of my way!" He shoved roughly past Wilf and scrambled up another stack of beams to frantically scan the landscape for any sign of the Master. Behind him, more voices were joining Wilf now, chattering excitedly.

"Did we do it? Is that him?"

"Tall and thin. Big, brown coat," Wilf confirmed. Still desperately hoping against hope, the Doctor squinted across the plain. Nothing – not a flicker of movement anywhere in the desolate wasteland. His hearts sank.

"The Silver Cloak! It worked!" came the voice of an elderly lady, and he finally turned his attention back to Wilf, who was accompanied by a group of a dozen or so greying pensioners. "'Cause Wilf phoned Netty, who phoned you, and her sister lives opposite Broadfell, and she saw the police box. And her neighbour saw _this_ man heading East!" Bewildered, the Doctor looked from one to another, noticing with a prickle of alarm that they were all gazing at him proudly, beaming from ear to ear.

"Wilfred," he said in a low voice, "have you told them who I am? You promised me-"

"No – I just said you were a Doctor, that's all," Wilf replied. "And might I say, sir – it is an honour to see you again." He stepped back and saluted, which the Doctor returned, relieved.

"Oh, but you never said he was a looker!" the lady exclaimed, eyeing the Doctor appreciatively. "He's gorgeous! Take a photo." She pulled a camera from her pocket and shoved it into the hands of a balding man who stood behind her, tottering forwards on her high heels. There were murmurs of agreement from the rest of the group, and before he knew it, the Doctor found himself surrounded by pensioners with his arm around the lady, who introduced herself as "Minnie the Menace".

Some distance away, the Master had realized that the Doctor was no longer pursuing him, and stopped. Now that the initial thrill had passed, he began to realize just how much energy he was using as the raging hunger struck. A flicker of movement from the edge of a nearby scaffold caught his attention out of the corner of his eye and he snapped into focus, honing in, moving towards the scaffold with the lethal grace of a predator.

What emerged from around the corner made him stumble back in shock. His hearts nearly skipped a beat – and without a second thought, he turned tail and fled.

Squirming anxiously, the Doctor strained his senses as the Master's presence grew fainter. The camera clicked; the balding man held it at arm's length, peering down his nose.

"Did it flash?"

"No – there's a blue light. Try again," Minnie answered.

"I…I'm really kind of busy, you know." The Doctor made to pull away, but Minnie objected.

"Oh, it won't take a tic. Keep smiling!" He tried to ignore her hand sliding down his back, one eye on the camera in the hands of the balding man, who seemed to be moving agonizingly slowly. As his gnarled finger depressed the button, there were several bright flashes and two white-hot beams of laser light streaked across the sky. Startled, Minnie's hand dropped, and the Doctor's hearts leaped into his throat – he knew those ray guns…

_It can't be…no, not now…_ The balding man frowned in puzzlement, turning the camera over in his hands, and Minnie stepped forwards to assist him. The Doctor, however, was already gone, halfway up the stack of beams with his back to the group. Wilf broke away from his friends and approached the Doctor, moving as though his years had finally caught up with him.

"Doctor?" he asked tentatively. "Doctor – was that…?" The Doctor made no reply, teeth clenched in concentration as his head turned this way and that, searching the wasteland. In the distance, darting between the huge gravel heaps, his eyes caught the dark shape of the Master moving almost blindingly fast across the weed-choked ground. In a single gravity-defying leap, the slight figure cleared a trailer. Two more shots came from behind a scaffold just as he dropped; for a heart-stopping moment, there was stillness, and then he was off again, pelting across the wasteland. The Doctor's eyes moved to the scaffold from where the shots came. He knew what he would see, but some part of him still dared to hope…no, there could be no mistaking those solid figures: Daleks – two of them – skimming across the ground in pursuit of the Master.

Reeling, the Doctor dropped lightly to the ground, Wilf following more slowly.

"But…how…" the old man stammered, white-faced.

"Listen to me, Wilf," the Doctor interrupted. "They haven't seen us yet – they're chasing the Master. You have to get away from here. How did you get here?"

"Well, there's our bus – just over there, on the road. But Doctor, I don't underst-"

"Get everyone to that bus. _Now_!" he snapped when Wilf opened his mouth again. Jolted into action, Wilf waved his hands for the attention of the group.

"Look here, you lot – listen up." They turned, and at the expression on his face, fell silent as one. "We've got to go – there's…there's something dangerous here." He looked over at the Doctor, seeking reassurance; already striding in the direction Wilf had motioned, the Doctor nodded gravely. Muttering their consternation, the pensioners began to move. Wilf could see that the Doctor was more agitated than he was letting on, the group's seemingly almost interminable slowness causing him to grow ever more on edge.

"Come on – pick it up," Wilf urged them, motioning with his hands. Mildly put out, they nevertheless pushed themselves into a faster gait.

"What are we running from, then?" Winston asked breathlessly.

"It's…no – no, I can't tell you," Wilf answered, avoiding his eyes. "Just trust me – it's-" Winston's lined face creased into a frown.

"All these secrets, Wilf! You won't even tell us who this Doctor is! Do you really trust him that much?"

"I'd trust him with my life," Wilf replied staunchly.

"Then tell us who he is – give _us_ a reason to trust him!" Wilf shook his head, sending a pleading glance at the Doctor, who was peering back at the horizon.

"For pity's sake, man – stop being so mysterious!" another man growled, and there were nods of agreement as the group ground to a halt.

"I think it's very exciting," Minnie spoke up, but her words went largely unnoticed.

Throwing uneasy backwards glances in the direction he had seen the Daleks, the Doctor felt his anxiety growing with every second. After whatever had happened to him when he was resurrected, the Master might not seem to be thinking entirely clearly, but at least he had had the sense to run from the Daleks. They wouldn't follow him forever, though. They might know the Doctor was around. Even worse, if their schemes involved secrecy, they might do a sweep of the area to clear out any humans who had seen them. And now, he was faced with a dozen or so squabbling pensioners.

"They're Daleks," he said quietly. Silence fell over the group, and he repeated, louder, his voice rising with urgency. "There are Daleks just over that ridge. If they see us, you will _all_ die. Now _move_!" Thrown into a panic, they broke into an ambling half-run as fast as their aging, arthritic joints could carry them. Minnie's camera fell from the balding man's shaking hand and shattered on the cracked concrete. Unheeded, the glass was trampled into splinters beneath their feet as they hurried on.

Turning a corner, the bus came into sight, parked on the edge of an access road to the construction site that had long fallen into disrepair. There was no sign of the Daleks, but the Doctor refused to let his guard down – he knew from experience by now that all too often, Daleks had a nasty habit of turning up without warning – and they pressed on. The driver reached the bus first and began fumbling in his coat pockets for the key – impatiently, the Doctor pulled out the sonic screwdriver and the doors hissed open. He hurdled the first two steps and leaned back out the door, reaching to assist the flustered people into the bus as they jostled forwards.

Wilf was the last to board, an elderly lady leaning on his arm for support. She collapsed into a chair and pulled out a handkerchief, with which she fanned her forehead. The engine coughed into life, and with a rumble, the bus was moving, bouncing off potholes as the driver accelerated down the neglected road.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** Don't own the characters, settings and whatnot...meh...*has run out of imaginative disclaimers*...

Merci beaucoup to loads of reviewers this time! Brownbug, iDestiny, ShirouHokuto, TheMasterOfTime, Ilssii-Koschei and Son of Whitebeard - you're all awesome! :D

Yup, as of the last chapter, we've crossed the line into AU territory now! Watch out - things could get...well, we'll see...

* * *

"What are you going to do now, Doctor?"

They stood outside Wilf's house – Donna's house, the Doctor still thought of it as – the greying old man, face solemn and apprehensive; and the Doctor, expression strained, glancing fretfully over at the house. The Doctor drew in his breath with a hiss and held it, calculating in his mind how far the bus had taken them before dropping them off here.

"Well, find out what the Daleks are up to, I suppose," he replied eventually, shoving his hands in his pockets. "And before you even say _anything_, you are staying right here, Wilf."

"But…but you don't have anyone, do you, Doctor?" Wilf protested. "You can't do this on your own."

"Listen to me, Wilf – these are Daleks. You've seen them; you know how dangerous they are. Sylvia and Donna – they need you."

"But what do we do? We just…carry on, like nothing's happened? Christmas, and all that?"

"Yep." The Doctor's face was deadly serious as he met Wilf's eyes. "Donna can't know anything. Sylvia…well, what would she think of me then, dragging you into this?" Wilf chuckled wearily, and then started and checked his watch as something occurred to him.

"Donna's going to be home any minute – she went shopping this afternoon."

"I'd best get going, then." The Doctor glanced up and down the street, checking.

"You be careful, Doctor," said Wilf. "Don't you go disappearing – you got me?" He hesitated, remembering something. "That man – the one the Daleks were after…"

"Don't worry about him – he can take care of himself," the Doctor assured him with a wry smile. "I'll find him."

"Good," Wilf nodded resolutely. "You need someone, Doctor."

It could have been Wilf's imagination, but he thought he saw more sadness than ever in the Doctor's dark eyes at that. Without another word, the Time Lord turned and strode away, leaving Wilf puzzled and unsettled.

...

The Master no longer felt the exhilaration of the energy that flowed through him. The Daleks' ray guns had missed him by a hair's breadth and he had landed hard, barely giving himself time to recover from the groundshock before he was up again and running. Faster and faster, he pushed himself, his volatile energy lending him speed until he hardly had time to react to obstacles that appeared in his path.

Eventually, he slowed and stopped, taking his first look back. There was no sign of the Daleks…no sign of anything, in fact. He was on the far outskirts of the wasteland, with the cranes visible in the distance behind a low hill, a row of ramshackle, rundown houses behind him, sparse grass on packed earth beneath his feet.

The intensity of his physical exertion hit him like a lorry the moment he went to draw a sigh of relief – his breath came in hoarse gasps and he doubled over, his hearts thudding painfully in his chest. Hyperventilating, his vision blurred, the ground tilting before him…

"You all right there?"

The Master raised his head slowly, silver specks dancing before his eyes. He found that he had sat down with his legs drawn up, head between his knees. At first, he thought he might have imagined the voice over the perpetual drumbeat – until he caught sight of the woman heading towards him. A council worker, most likely, wearing a fluoro-orange vest and approaching from between two of the empty houses.

He stood up shakily, almost faint with hunger.

"You all right?" the council worker repeated, and the Master locked eyes with her. Something in his face must have betrayed that savage ache inside him, as she paused, glancing around as if becoming aware of the isolation of the place.

"I'm not alone," she added hastily. "There's someone parked over on the road – maybe we could phone you an ambulance, get you to…" Her words were little more than a buzz to the Master, who took a step forward. Through the haze, he felt his foot brush against a steel bracket half buried in the soil and some part of his mind registered it.

The Daleks were forgotten, the Doctor was forgotten…even the drums became a background noise to the insatiable drive, the one thing he was aware of…he _had_ to eat…

...

Abigail ran her finger around the rim of the champagne glass. In the empty silence of the dining room, she could just make out a ringing resonance from the fragile crystal. Holding her finger poised above the glass, she let the sound linger – the air seemed so _thin_ in here, so still, so untouched – before moving to the next glass and letting her fingertip gently caress the delicate edge. The whole table had been laid that morning – twenty-six places in all: a dozen down each side and one at each end. Silver cutlery shone like rays of light reflecting the glittering crystal chandelier overhead; a plate, soup dish and side plate in finest, flawless china were set out in perfect symmetry at each place with a fluted crystal champagne glass at the right hand. At each end of the table, high-backed, gilded chairs marked where she and her father would sit; the King and his Crown Princess.

She had never eaten alone before.

Her eyes came to rest on her father's chair, and suddenly it seemed as if it were the only object in the room. It stood empty, stark, bare – for all the world like it was waiting for its occupant. Yes, it was waiting. Abigail's eyes flickered over to the door.

_Hurry up, Daddy_…

Still, the door remained motionless; and still, the ornate throne patiently waited. Slowly, Abigail walked down the length of the table to the chair. Placing her hands on it, she pulled it a little way out, just as she had seen the servants do every evening for her father to sit, and for some minutes, she waited there with the chair, poised to meet those deep, ebony eyes of the King as he entered his banquet hall.

He wasn't coming. He wasn't coming – but the chair needed someone, it _needed_ an occupant. Abigail couldn't bring herself to lower herself into its gilded embrace, and her head sank down on her hands, leaning on the back, letting the silence in the dining room wash over her.

Time passed, and a tap at the dining room door made Abigail jerk bolt upright, heart pounding as the door creaked open. A head appeared – one of the soldiers of her father's private army.

"There you are, ma'am."

"What's happening?" Abigail asked, clearing her throat and stepping back from the chair. The soldier pushed the door the rest of the way open and entered the room, his gaze sweeping around the lavish furnishings and oil paintings that hung on the wall – it occurred to Abigail that most of the military personnel had probably never seen the inside of the mansion proper.

"They didn't get him." Abigail nodded. For an instant, she wondered how anyone could possibly have escaped the Daleks, but then the soldier continued. "That one that stayed behind – the gold one – it spotted something else on the surveillance cameras around Broadfell. Must've been pretty important – the other two came back to check it out."

"What is it?"

"Not the foggiest," the soldier shrugged. "Looked like an old police box to me – you know, those blue phonebox things from the '60s. They sent some of my men out to get it about half an hour ago." Intrigued, Abigail raised her eyebrows – and then a thought occurred to her that made her stomach lurch with dread.

"Do they still want to find Harold Saxon?" If she had outlived her usefulness… Again, the soldier shrugged.

"They're all buzzing around talking about a doctor now. I once knew a bloke who worked with UNIT – said all the aliens he'd ever heard of were completely bonkers. Good news, though – they've said no-one else is going to be killed." Unable to disguise the relief that flooded through her, Abigail's shoulders sagged and she leaned against the edge of the table.

"That seems…strange," she observed, and the soldier nodded.

"They've got something else as well, now – turned up with it a few hours ago. Something…alien."

"What sort of a something? Show me." Now that she felt reasonably assured of her safety, Abigail's curiosity began to get the better of her. She headed over to the door and the soldier led her down the corridor and into the main hall.

At the far end of the hall, to one side of the Immortality Gate, the Daleks appeared to be occupied with something that, as it came into view, caused Abigail's eyes to widen. It vaguely resembled a miniature Dalek, she thought, with its sloping cylindrical shape and columns of circles down the sides. The device was mounted on a framework of crossing metal bars, and several trailing wires ran across the floor, connecting it to the nuclear power source of the Immortality Gate.

A stabbing reminder of her loss marred the wonder she felt – _if only Daddy could see this_… However, she wasn't given a chance to dwell on that emptiness for long as the Dalek leader's eyestalk turned and, seeing her, moved across the hall to address her.

"The human female will locate the Master." Abigail flinched, her eyes wandering towards the ray gun. There would be no warning if it decided to fire; in her mind's eye, that moment replayed itself when the creature had turned its weapon on her father and ended his life in an instant, unhesitating and remorseless.

"You will answer," it said when Abigail remained silent.

"Why do you need him?" she demanded.

"You will not question. You will obey." The harsh metallic voice left no room for argument, and Abigail couldn't find it in herself to even think of a reason to disagree. She nodded, turning to the soldier who still stood beside her. Behind her, she could hear the faint humming whirr as the Dalek glided back to join the other two.

"Orders, ma'am?" the soldier asked cautiously.

"We…we find him," Abigail replied slowly. "Can you do that? Who do I have to tell?" Confusion was setting in – not just the mystery of why the Daleks wanted Harold Saxon, but now the burden of being at the command of her father's entire staff and private military personnel. Her father's voice echoed in her mind,

_"…you just leave it to Daddy…"_

Always, she had left everything to her father or, on occasion, Mr. Danes – the two men had seen to it that she had never even had to ask for anything. Now, these Daleks expected her to take control of and coordinate a search for a man who was not only supposed to be dead, but had already eluded them once. Her throat tightened with despair as she turned her head this way and that, vainly hoping for someone to step up beside her and take charge. Sensing her uncertainty, the soldier cleared his throat and spoke up.

"We still have the security cameras running. I can tell my superiors – they'll report back to you…or them…if we find anything." Abigail nodded again hesitantly.

"Yes – you do that."

"I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am," said the soldier sincerely, before snapping into a salute, turning on his heel and departing, leaving Abigail standing in the middle of the hall feeling lost and bewildered.

...

The wasteland was like a graveyard, silent and deserted. What little moonlight filtered through the clouds was barely enough for the Doctor to see where he was placing his feet. Occasionally, his trainer would brush against a loose piece of metal, and the scrape of rusting steel against concrete chips was like nails on a blackboard. A damp mist had rolled in across the city and settled across the wasteland like a thin blanket, swirling about the Doctor's feet as he strode through the eerie stillness. The air was so cold that the billows of steam that condensed with each breath hung in the air for several seconds before dissolving into the darkness.

Despite the absence of light, the Doctor moved purposefully, guided by senses other than sight. The Master was here – the Doctor could sense his presence, slightly erratic, like an image on a worn videotape, but here nonetheless.

Skirting around the edge of a mound of rubble, he came to a wide, flat space at the edge of a construction site. The iron skeleton of a building stretched out to wrap around the edge of a long-abandoned warehouse – it was there that the Doctor's temporal senses honed in.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** Don't own nuffin'. :(

O loyal reviewers - iDestiny, Brownbug, Ilssii-Koschei, ShirouHokuto and GuesssWho - muchas gracias, amigos! :D

A personal favourite, this chapter... :)

* * *

Bones. Nothing but bare bones, picked clean, the marrow scraped out and devoured along with every scrap of tendon and tissue. But he was _still_ hungry… The Master scrabbled in the dust, brushing the bones aside in a desperate search for anything that remained that could quench his insatiable appetite. Nothing… He sat back against a concrete pipe and closed his eyes, trying to repress the ravenous, gnawing hunger just for a moment; the drums hammered on and on, stronger than he could ever remember them being, so loud it almost hurt…he could practically feel the beat keeping time with his own hearts.

_One two three four…one two three four…_

A sound, a barely audible night-time scuffle, made him open his eyes and raise his head. His pulse quickened and he rose to his feet, facing the direction from which the sound had come: a wide doorway at the other end of the warehouse. Adrenaline pumped through his already tense body, fuelling the energy that was beginning to burn inside him from the vast amounts he had consumed…and he became aware that it was crackling to the surface, sparks of his own life force running across his skin like electricity. He clenched his fists, directing it, and the sparks became white-hot tendrils that ran between his fingers.

At the doorway, a figure appeared. Not a Dalek – a Time Lord; the Master could feel the Doctor's presence now, and inhaled deeply, raising his hands from his sides. The Doctor began to walk towards him, a grave expression on his face which the Master met with a fiendish grin – because he had it all figured out now… He rubbed his hands together, faster and faster, directing energy down his arms until his hands were a fizzing blur – and then released. Energy erupted straight from his open palms in a blinding, blue-white bolt, meeting its target at the Doctor's hearts. The Doctor was stopped in his tracks, frozen to the spot, grimacing as he braced himself against the burning energy. Ignoring the sudden rush of energy which dissipated itself through his skin, the Master kept the life force flowing from his translucent hands until, without warning, he drew his hands back, closing his fists and cutting off the energy. Breathless, half-stunned, the Doctor made to take a step forward but lost his balance and stumbled to his hands and knees, falling into the dust at the Master's feet. With a satisfied smile, the Master watched him trying to catch his breath, arms folded.

"So what now, Doctor?" he said, his voice low and threatening. The Doctor managed to raise his head enough to meet the Master's eyes, but the dry ash was clogging his eyes and throat, and when he tried to speak, all that emerged was a weak cough. "You said the Daleks burned in the Time War. You burned them, with Gallifrey and the Time Lords."

"I…I said 'more or less'…" the Doctor choked, trying to push himself up onto his elbows. "They're-"

"_You_ burned them, Doctor," the Master interrupted. "You've destroyed them so many times…but now…" He began to walk slowly around the Doctor, eyes gleaming as he spoke. "Look at you, crawling in the dust. How the mighty have fallen!" He laughed, his life force flashing to the surface once again to reveal his skeleton, and the Doctor winced. "Just think – their greatest enemy, the Oncoming Storm, handed to them helpless and weak."

"And…and what do you think they'd do to you then?" The Master shrugged.

"I'm sure we can come to some arrangement," he replied nonchalantly. "It's you they want, after all."

"Wha-" The Doctor coughed again, spitting out dust, and managed to raise himself into a more-or-less kneeling position. "I wasn't the one shouting into people's heads right across time and space."

"What?" Uncertain if he'd heard correctly, the Master stopped, staring at the Doctor with a puzzled expression.

"Never could resist the melodramatic, could you?"

"What are you _talking_ about?" the Master demanded, hunching down in front of the Doctor.

"The Ood said 'all the peoples of the universe' were dreaming of you in the 43rd century. Those Daleks could have come from anywhere," the Doctor ground out through gritted teeth. "How did you do it, anyway? Right across time, right across the universe…" There was silence for a long moment, which was broken by a most unexpected sound: the Master burst out laughing. Aghast, the Doctor lowered his eyes and said nothing.

"Don't you want to know what's so funny, Doctor?" the Master chuckled, sitting back against a concrete pipe. "For once – just once – _I haven't done anything_!"

"You…" Shaking his head, the Doctor struggled into a sitting position before meeting the Master's eyes again. "You didn't do it?"

"Nope," the Master smirked. "Wasn't even planning to. No taking over your precious Earth, no mind control, no hypnotism…not yet, anyway."

"'Not yet'…" A thought occurred to the Doctor, and he reached out with his temporal senses, inhaling slowly as he probed the currents of time that surrounded them. He almost recoiled at what met him – the delicate webs of time with the dense cluster of fixed points that the TARDIS had detected before he had arrived were being twisted and bent almost beyond recognition even as he watched, as if someone were taking a sledgehammer to the causal nexus and battering it out of shape like a sheet of metal. "There's something more going on here," he realized. "Can't you feel it?" The Master was silent. He couldn't sense much of anything, to be honest – it all seemed a blur, temporal senses scrambled, the world deadened beneath the drums pounding in his ears, beating excruciatingly against him…so loud now, and still growing, closer and closer…

_…one two three four…_

…why couldn't the Doctor hear it now? Almost unaware of his own movements, he had raised his hands to his ears. Concern passed across the Doctor's face, which the Master hardly noticed.

"It hurts…" he muttered. "The noise…Doctor, it _hurts_…"

"Let me help you," the Doctor implored him. "Everything's changed now. We need to…" He trailed off – the Master wasn't listening, had risen and turned his back, running his hands through his hair, clenching his fists against the sides of his head. Painfully, the Doctor pulled himself to his feet and took a step towards the other Time Lord, but his foot crunched against something and he looked down. Behind the concrete pipe, some irregularly-shaped objects were scattered in the ash, their whitish colour standing out against the dirt in the moonlight which seeped down into the dank warehouse.

Hearing the snapping of the bones, the Master turned to see the Doctor's expression move from sickened horror to cold anger, where it lingered for an interminable pause before melting into something like dismay as he raised his eyes to meet those of the Master.

"Go on, then – lecture me," he snarled, averting his gaze. "Tell me what human life means, how _important_ they all are…oh, but I'm _so_ hungry…"

"You have to listen to me." The Doctor's voice was grave now, dark eyes hardened. "The resurrection must have gone wrong – that energy…your body's ripped open. You can't keep this up – you _need_ help-"

They both froze. There had been an unmistakable _something_ – a flare of light illuminating the edge of the doorway, just for a moment. In the darkness, the two Time Lords held their breath, and then the Doctor forced himself into action, grabbing the Master's arm and pulling him back against the wall. Through a crack in the rickety stairwell between them and the door, he could make out the outline of the door, a faint glow of moonlight defining the edges against the gloom. As he watched, the edge was broken by a shadow that fell across the entranceway – a long, slender stalk – which was followed by the solid silhouette of a Dalek. The creature moved through the door, a blue glow winking in and out of the Doctor's line of vision as it swung its eyestalk from side to side, scanning the interior of the warehouse.

"You will reveal yourselves!" The harsh, metallic voice seemed even more abrasive than ever when it shattered the silence. The Doctor flinched; beside him, he heard a quickening of breath – through the shadows that concealed them, he could make out the Master's face, pale and drawn, and noticed that the arm he still gripped in one hand was shaking. The hazel eyes were wide, pupils pinpricks, and even as the Doctor watched, became momentarily distant as if lost in a memory of distant horrors, the kinds of nightmares that could bring the proudest Time Lords to their knees…the fear that could force even the Master, who had committed almost unimaginable atrocities himself, to risk death as a human for the sake of fleeing.

"Come on," the Doctor hissed under his breath. When the Master didn't move, still transfixed by the sight of the Dalek, which had begun to move slowly forwards again, the Doctor took him by the shoulders and shook him, and he seemed to come to, locking eyes with the Doctor, who motioned for him to follow. They made their way along the edge of the warehouse and around a corner, pressed back against the wall while the Dalek slowly advanced.

"You will reveal yourselves," it ordered again.

"Is there another way out of here?" the Doctor breathed, and the Master tore his eyes away from the Dalek to nod hesitantly and point to the wall that now faced them, where a rusting fire-escape door hung from its hinges leaving a gap just wide enough to admit a person. The Doctor returned the nod, trying to catch his eye, but the Master's gaze had returned to the slowly approaching Dalek, eyes wavering. In a rush of sympathy that he might have felt for any of his companions, the Doctor placed a reassuring hand on the Master's shoulder and found for a moment that it was trembling, before the other Time Lord wrenched himself away and began to pick his way along in the shadows, the Doctor following close behind.

They were less than three paces to one side of the door when the Dalek emerged from around the corner, its eyestalk immediately swivelling to focus on them. The Doctor stepped forwards away from the wall, facing the Dalek expressionlessly. Out of the corner of his eye, there was a flicker of movement, which the Dalek had also spotted, and the Doctor realized with a stab of alarm that the Master had darted for the escape. There was a deafening crash as the heavy iron door fell inwards in a blaze of orange sparks; the Master stumbled back just in time and it missed him by inches. The dust that had been thrown into the air settled quickly, and the Doctor saw what had caused the explosion – on the other side of the doorway, blocking the moonlight and casting a shadow across the immobile Master, a second Dalek stood, its ray gun held poised to fire.

"The Time Lords have been located," it announced.

Something seemed to snap inside the Master. A dangerous glint entered his eyes and he stepped back to face both the Daleks – and then, in a motion almost too fast to follow, he had leaped into the air and alighted at the top of the stairwell that hung precariously from the edge of the crumbling stone wall. The Daleks' eyestalks were trained on him as he looked down on them, a smile spreading slowly across his face.

"Oh no you don't," he whispered, and then again, louder, "no you _don't_!" He sprang nimbly from the top of the stairwell, landing back around the corner where the bones were scattered in the dust, his back to the door the first Dalek had entered through. "Not any more!" His voice was growing hoarse as he shouted, and there was a manic light in his eyes. He now had a direct line of view to both Daleks, who had turned to face him, the second moving up beside the first. "I won't run from you – I am the _Master_!" He clenched and unclenched his fists, and the Doctor suddenly realized what he was about to do.

"No – don't!"

Too late. Glowing tendrils of white-hot energy sparked to life around the Master's hands, and with a scream of rage and defiance, he unleashed the blinding bolts of his life force straight at the Daleks. One managed to move to the side; the second was not so fortunate. Caught by the full force of the blast, it was held on the spot as the energy was conducted through its Dalekanium shell like electricity. Its outline was illuminated in a blue-white glow; the lights on its dome shattered; and as the energy penetrated the casing and seared through the life support mechanisms, the creature inside began to shriek, an ear-splitting, shrill sound that rent the air as though pain itself had found a voice.

"Stop! Please, stop!" the Doctor pleaded, but his voice was barely audible over the sound of the agony of the mutant creature being boiled alive in its own shell, which mingled with the Master's scream of fury. Energy pulsed out through his skin, and he tilted his head to one side as he forced it down his arms and out. It rushed through his skin, dissipating itself into the air even as the steady stream poured from his hands; he pushed it further and further, encouraged by the sound of the Dalek burning from the inside out, beads of sweat dampening his forehead with the effort.

The first Dalek, which had initially slid back in alarm and confusion, suddenly moved into action.

"Initiate emergency teleport," it grated out. The blue glow that surrounded it was a dim pallor compared to the Master's life force which flowed into the other Dalek – and then they were both gone, and the bolts of energy struck bare ground, scorching the dust black before they ceased.

"Go on – run!" the Master laughed weakly. He took a step forwards, but his legs gave way beneath him and he collapsed to his knees, the Doctor running forwards to catch him before he fell. Eyes glittering with triumph, he raised his head to meet the Doctor's gaze, and was somewhat surprised to be faced with a cold, stony silence.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** While the Master clearly owned that Dalek in one sense, I own nothing. In any sense.

Many thanks to the bunch of regular Master-supporters who seem to be building up here - Brownbug, iDestiny, TheMasterOfTime, Ilssii-Koschei and ShirouHokuto - for your total lack of sympathy for that poor Dalek! :D

* * *

It was a frustrating situation… Leaning against a desk, Addams restlessly fingered the teleport access tags in her pocket for the umpteenth time and exchanged a glance with Rossiter. Through the glass of the nuclear containment booth, he met her eyes helplessly. In a few hours, they would exchange places – she would enter the other booth, locking herself in, and he would be released to sit at the desk, ready to operate the Gate at the Daleks' command. With the guards and soldiers having made themselves scarce – "securing the grounds" or whatever they had said they were doing – it was now just the three of them in the hall: herself, Rossiter and Abigail. Well, four if she counted the off-gold plated lead Dalek which had remained behind while the two dark green ones went in search of this "Master", Harold Saxon.

At the far end of the hall, the Dalek had extended its plunger and was interfacing with their strange device that they had set up beside the Gate via a control panel welded into the metal framework. Clearly intended for Dalek use, the control panel consisted of little more than several glowing domes that fit snugly into the cup of the Dalek's plunger.

It was nearly midnight, and the two Daleks had been gone for almost an hour by now. Addams had hoped that the search would provide an opportunity for herself and Rossiter to make their escape, but with the soldiers gone and no-one to take Rossiter's place in the glass booth – not to mention the lead Dalek still supervising all activity in the mansion – it looked as though they were still stuck. With a groan of disgust, she viciously kicked a computer chair away and watched it roll smoothly across the buffed floor to bump against a desk on the other side of the hall.

Beside a marble pillar, half hidden in the shade it cast across the floor from the chandeliers that lined the walls, Abigail glanced up and her eyes locked onto the motion of the chair sliding towards her. Addams watched as, gaze fixed on the chair, a strange, indecipherable expression seemed to pass like a shadow across the human girl's face. Almost hopeful for a second, it faded into something more like confusion as the chair came to rest, spinning slowly to face her. There was a tense pause, Abigail tilting her head as though listening to something, and then Addams thought she heard her voice whisper,

"You're not mine." Addams raised her eyebrows and reluctantly pushed herself off the desk to cross the hall and retrieve the chair.

"Sorry – that's mine," she apologized, placing her hands on its back to wheel it back to her desk. As Abigail raised her head, the Vinvocci technician noticed – not for the first time – how red-rimmed and puffy her eyes appeared, how she seemed to start at every slight motion at the corner of her vision, how even when making eye contact with Addams, her attention remained on the computer chair. She tried to force her face into an encouraging smile, but somehow couldn't quite bring herself to it – what could she possibly have to be optimistic about now?

"Why don't you go to bed?" she said eventually. "We're just waiting – I'm sure you don't need to be here." To her disconcertion, Abigail's eyes widened and she looked almost alarmed.

"I can't do that," she replied with a shake of her head. "I have to-" She stopped, jerking her head around to the centre of the hall; Addams followed her gaze and saw with a shudder that a flicker of blue light had pierced the still air and was widening – the two Daleks were returning. The glow of the teleport expanded steadily, and biting her lip, Addams became aware of a sound that seemed to be ringing through it – almost like a whistle at first, so faintly it reached them; and then it grew rapidly to what she could almost imagine was a distant shriek that was rushing closer and closer, escalating in pitch and volume. Moments before it reached an unbearable intensity, Addams found herself acting purely on instinct, grabbing Abigail's arm and throwing herself to the ground, dragging both herself and the human behind the desk.

Not a fraction of a second too late, either. The teleport beam solidified in the centre of the hall into the forms of the two navy-green Daleks. Around one, the light died away and it moved quickly back; the other seemed, for a split second, to be encased in a blue-white aura that flared into a blinding flash, before there was a deafening explosion. Shielding themselves behind the desk, Addams and Abigail covered their heads with their arms. A wave of heat pulsed out along the floor; the crystal chandeliers shattered, plunging the hall into near-darkness; several panes of glass in the domed ceiling were blown out, splinters of glass raining down onto the tile mosaic; and in the nuclear containment booth, Rossiter fell back against the control panel in fright as splinters of shrapnel struck the unbreakable Vinvocci glass and fell harmlessly to the floor.

Silence filled the hall. Something fizzed, popped, clinked to the ground. A Dalek's voice was the first to be heard.

"Ensure the Progenitor is undamaged." Addams cautiously uncurled herself, ears ringing and heart racing. She drew a shaky breath and raised herself on her knees to peer over the top of the desk. In the centre of the hall, a faint wisp of smoke still trickling from it, was all that remained of one of the green Daleks. Its top had been blown wide open with such force that some of the razor blade-like shards of its casing had embedded themselves in the desks and wooden panelling of the walls. The inside, as far as she could tell, was a tangle of melted diodes and circuitry with scorched stumps of drip lines of a life support system – of the creature itself, there was little trace except what might have been a few charred scraps of flesh hanging limply over the side. She almost gagged, bile rising in her throat as a rancid smell of burning flesh reached her nostrils. Trying to take in as little air as possible, she climbed to her feet, hearing Abigail do the same behind her. The other two Daleks appeared to be occupied with examining their own technology, the "Progenitor", and were paying no heed to their violently disembowelled comrade.

"Sentimental bunch," she muttered sarcastically. A repetitive tapping broke through the numbness that the blast had left in her hearing – Rossiter in the glass booth, knocking on the door and gesticulating wildly. He had probably practically shed his spines, she thought. Eyes averted from the burned-out shell of the Dalek, she hurried over.

Abigail's eyes were wide, round as saucers, locked unflinchingly onto the mangled Dalek's remains. She felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck, a prickle that became a shiver and ran the length of her spine, setting her whole body shivering.

_He destroyed a Dalek…_

Not only that, but they had returned without him again. Harold Saxon, the man who had mesmerized the entire planet, had evaded the Daleks twice…and now he had _destroyed_ one of them.

_Such power…_ The very thought of it sent a chill through her. It tugged at her, drawing her mind away from the stark void that her father's death had left inside her, nagging at her consciousness until it filled her with a resolute focus, replaying itself in her mind as her eyes lingered on the Dalek casing.

_…such power…_

They _had_ to find him…

...

The faint blue glow given off by the sonic screwdriver reflected in the Doctor's dark eyes as he frowned in concentration, flicking through settings in rapid succession. Kneeling in the dust, he held the device out at arm's length in front of him, waving it through the air in figure-eights before bringing it close to his face and squinting in the darkness. His black spectacles were perched on top of his head, one lens cracked and the other completely shattered from his earlier fall. Over the high-pitched buzz, he failed to hear footsteps approaching behind him until the Master's voice at his back startled him into fumbling and dropping the screwdriver.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to track those Daleks," the Doctor replied without turning, picking up the screwdriver and brushing the soot off against the arm of his coat. "This is the spot they teleported from, so there should still be some residual spatial energy, which I _should_," he gritted his teeth intently, raising the screwdriver again, "be able to use to extrapolate coordinates. But it's too distorted by your-" In an instant, the Master was in front of him and had struck the sonic screwdriver from his hand, sending it spinning across the ground into the shadows.

"I can't let you do that, Doctor," he growled.

"But we've got to find-"

"I've escaped from them twice already, and now _you_ want to give them a chance to make it third time lucky?" the Master interrupted. "Because I've no doubt you'll drag me along when you go running after them, or lead them straight back to me."

"You do realize, don't you, that they could have exterminated you on the spot?" The Doctor climbed to his feet, brushing the dust from his suit. "They were trying to get close enough to trap you in a chronon-loop – they want you alive. But _why_?" He sucked in air through his teeth with a hiss, and then shook his head in confusion and took a step towards where the sonic screwdriver had rolled. The Master beat him to it, pouncing on it and snatching it up before the Doctor had even spotted it. Their eyes met, and there was an interminable pause before the Doctor slowly and cautiously extended his hand as if facing an armed gunman.

"Give it back. I'm asking you for help."

"I'm not one of your gullible human pets," the Master snarled, lip curled in contempt. "You're not throwing _me_ to the Daleks."

"You were threatening to hand _me_ over to them a few hours ago," the Doctor reminded him. "Which I assume was a bluff, by the way." He regretted the last words as soon as they had left his mouth – he had hit a nerve, and the Master's expression hardened.

"Call _this_ a bluff, then," he hissed. Tendrils of energy crackled to life around his hand, snaking between his fingers, and then with an extra push that sent his life force flashing through his skin, he clenched his fist around the sonic screwdriver, which exploded in a fizz of orange sparks. He threw it to the ground at the Doctor's feet and a satisfied smirk began to creep onto his face before the energy surged through him again and he winced. The Doctor let out a groan of frustration and viciously kicked the useless remains of the screwdriver across the ground.

"Don't you _ever_ think?" he exclaimed.

"Oh, so says the one who was about to follow a _Dalek_ home," the Master snorted. His life force was still glowing to the surface repeatedly; he shook his head as if to clear it and sat down against a concrete pipe.

"They won't give up, you know. That was…that was all we had left." The Doctor's voice faltered as he realized the extent of the words. He drew a deep breath, ran his hands through his hair and sat down opposite the Master on a stack of crumbling bricks. For some time, the two sat in silence, the Doctor straining his ears for any slight noise outside that might have indicated a returning Dalek. Then, the Master spoke, and his voice was soft, hesitant.

"Did you ever see the Cruciform?"

"No," the Doctor admitted. He had heard of it, though; the memories made him shiver. Technology that simulated the Time Lords' own empathic nature, the Cruciform had been an advanced weapon deployed when the Time War had first begun to accelerate in its escalation towards the unimaginable nightmare it would eventually become. Forcing the Daleks to feel true emotion for the first time, it was reasoned, would destroy them; it was a brutal resort that the Doctor had opposed from the start. The suffering it would have inflicted would be worse than anything they could physically subject the soulless creatures to.

"They knew I wouldn't hesitate to use it." The Master's voice lowered almost to a whisper. "But we were too late. It was taken, and the Daleks…" He had to swallow hard before continuing. "They…they turned it on me." The Doctor's breath caught in his throat and he shuddered. Every Time Lord had memories swept under the rug, moments of their lives when they had justified wrongs to themselves – and by that stage of the War, most of them had several lifetimes' worth. But for the Master…the Doctor was surprised it hadn't torn him apart.

"They were inside my head, Doctor," the Master continued, avoiding his gaze. "The Daleks…there were so many of them…and the Emperor… In my head…they…it _hurt_. It hurt, worse than the drums…"

"So you ran." The Doctor's voice was expressionless – a statement, a fact, without judgement or justification – and the Master nodded. His eyes were distant, pupils constricted with remembered terror; and then he seemed to mentally shake himself and focus once again on the Doctor.

"But not any more." He clenched his fists and a grin spread across his pale features.

"Don't be stupid. You won't survive doing that again, and you know it." The Master's smile faded and he bit his lip, averting his eyes.

"I _have_ to eat…"

"I know." The Doctor nodded sympathetically. "Tomorrow. We'll figure something out tomorrow. Christmas Day, you know," he added as an afterthought. He tried to send the Master an encouraging smile, but the Master merely scowled, drawing his knees up to his chest, leaning his head back against the pipe and closing his eyes.

"Yes – good idea, get some sleep," said the Doctor. The Master opened his eyes to slits and glared at the Doctor.

"I'm conserving my energy," he snapped. The Doctor shrugged noncommittally.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Doctor Who, I would not have sat on the doorstep for five hours today holding a garage sale.

To all you great reviewers - Brownbug, ShirouHokuto, Ilssii-Koschei, TheMasterOfTime and KlinicallyInsaneKoschei - あいがとうございます! (Bet I spelled that wrong... :S ) I love hearing all your opinions and feedback as the story progresses - especially when you all seem to be enjoying it so much. :)

* * *

It didn't feel like Christmas. The cards were strung up on the walls, tinsel spirals sparkled and twirled over the window, the air in the little house was heady with the mouthwatering aroma of the enormous roast turkey that sat in the oven in the kitchen…but Wilf just couldn't dredge up in himself even a trace of festivity. Not when he knew what was out there.

"…it's never too early for margaritas, that's what I say…" Donna's cheerful greeting as she swept into the room barely registered with Wilf, who was leaning on the windowsill, craning his neck around to peer up and down the street. He had slept little more than a wink, the anxiety gnawing at him like a starved rat; when his eyes had finally closed, he was plagued by memories of that day – nearly half a year ago now, but as vivid as though it were yesterday – when the metallic monsters had descended from the nightmarish sky. They should have been gone, should have burned, their whole species wiped from existence.

And now, somehow, they had returned – and they were on Earth, barely twenty minutes' drive from his own home the last he had seen of them. But along with them, the Doctor had returned – good old Doctor, still alone but still the same selfless man that Wilf remembered, radiating trustworthiness and a fierce intelligence that could topple civilizations on a whim.

"Gramps?" Donna's voice broke into his thoughts and he turned to have a small but heavy parcel thrust into his hands. "Well go on – you going to open it or not?" His granddaughter stood with her hands on her hips, waiting expectantly; he mentally shook himself and turned his attention to the present, digging his fingernails into the sellotape. The brightly coloured wrapping paper fell away to reveal the cover of a hardback book with a severe-looking man frowning up at him, arms folded. "Fighting the Future," the title read, "by Joshua Naismith." Puzzled, Wilf blinked at the book, holding it at arm's length until Donna folded her arms and his eyes drifted back to her.

"Well?" she demanded. "Do you like it?"

"Oh – uh…" He turned the book over and peered at the back cover absent-mindedly. "It's…"

"Donna – is that Shaun arriving?" Sylvia interrupted. Sure enough, the doorbell rang moments later and Donna hurried from the kitchen, leaving a bewildered Wilf facing Sylvia, who was shaking her head.

"What's gotten into you today, Dad?"

"Eh?" Wilf's hands moved automatically to place the book on the counter.

"You're a million miles away. Come on, it's Christmas – cheer up, for Donna at least." Wilf fidgeted guiltily under Sylvia's scrutiny. It wouldn't be the first time he had kept something from her, but to conceal something that could threaten all their lives, even at the Doctor's instructions… He swallowed nervously and opened his mouth, but Sylvia spoke first.

"Did you take the turkey out of the oven?" Wilf started, quailing under the fierce glare he received from his daughter, and scurried to the kitchen, Sylvia following after.

Donna entered shortly after, a young, curly-haired man in tow with an armful of festive packages and a jovial "aye aye!" Wilf was just opening the oven door when the phone pealed loudly and he jumped, dropping the oven mitt and scrambling to hold the door without burning himself. He heard Sylvia tutting impatiently as she headed to the hall door, and behind him, Donna's voice over the crinkle of wrapping paper.

"Oh, it'll just be Nerys. Every year, she asks for that orange sauce recipe – _why_ she doesn't just-"

"Dad – it's for you," Sylvia called. The oven mitt slipped from Wilf's hands once again and fell into the bottom of the oven as he slammed the door and dodged a peck on the cheek from Shaun to answer the phone.

"Hello?"

"Oh, hello Wilfred," a quavering voice replied. "It's Netty. It _was_ you that called me yesterday, wasn't it?"

"Yeah…yeah, about the-"

"Oh good. I get so forgetful these days, you know…" Her voice was barely audible; Wilf moved to close the door behind him, cutting off the sounds of the television. "…and just the other day, I was getting ready to go to croquet when I realized it was actually a _Wednesday_ night, not Thurs-"

"Yeah, I called you about that police box," Wilf cut in.

"Oh yes – the police box, that's right." Netty hastily returned to the subject, clearing her throat. "Well, my sister phoned me yesterday afternoon. She was terribly confused – all these men turned up, she said, all in black uniforms with helmets. Not police – more like you'd see on these military movies nowadays, you know, all guns and walkie-talkies…it's all rather violent, isn't it-"

"Netty, what did they do?" Wilf could feel his heart rate quickening and his stomach lurched.

"Oh, right, sorry," Netty apologized quickly. "Anyway, they put that police box in a big black van and took it off somewhere. My sister says they looked like some sort of private army. She's _terribly_ confused. And you know April, from the bridge club? Lives over near that old development site – or is it May…?"

"June," Wilf supplied, only half listening now.

"Yes, that's her. Well, she's at Minnie's now, and she's terribly worried – there was a strange noise last night, apparently, and her neighbour called the police, and now they're all there with their flashing lights, asking questions, and Minnie says they found a body behind those empty houses at the end of the street. June must be _terribly_ frightened, poor thing – to think, a murder at Christmas…"

"Netty, I've got to go," said Wilf, swallowing the lump of dread that sat in his throat.

"Oh, right – Christmas, of course…"

"Thanks," he added. "You'll keep your eyes open, won't you? Merry Christmas." His trembling hand replaced the receiver slowly and he grabbed his coat from the hook behind the door, slipping his feet into his shoes as he cracked open the door to the kitchen.

"Everything all right, Dad?" Sylvia's voice was concerned, and even Donna's chatter ceased when she caught sight of the expression on Wilf's face.

"I…I've got to go out for a minute," Wilf stammered, mind racing. "It's June, from the bridge club. There's been a murder over in her neighbourhood, and you know she's all alone over there – especially at this time of the year, you know, I was going to…"

"Oh, how dreadful!" Sylvia's eyes widened. "Yes, you go. Why don't you invite her back here?"

"Take my car, Mr. Mott – the keys are on the side there," Shaun put in.

"Cheers." Wilf was unable to meet their eyes as he shoved the keys in his pocket and left the house. June was at Minnie's, Netty had said, and knowing the two of them, the Christmas sherry would be well and truly set into by now. They were probably trilling along to the carols on the radio and arguing over bridge scores from two weeks ago. He chided himself at his own guilt – after all, it wasn't too far from the truth, and he was keeping his promise to the Doctor – but his conscience still nagged at him as he drove Eastwards across London. It gave a particularly nasty twinge when he turned off before he reached June's neighbourhood and drove along the derelict gravel road that ran alongside the development site back towards where he had encountered the Doctor the day before.

The washed-out grey wasteland was so silent that it wasn't long before Wilf, walking between stacks of rusting steel beams, thought he caught the sound of voices drifting through the still air. He removed his woollen hat and turned his head, straining his ears to determine the direction of the sound, and then shoved the hat into his pocket and continued walking, past the steel beams and construction materials, between towering mounds of rubble and gravel that cut off the horizon and seemed almost to enclose him. Rounding a corner by a corroding skip filled with rotten, broken planks, Wilf released a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding at the sight of a figure sat on an upturned oil drum with their back to him. The Doctor was still dressed in his distinctive tan trenchcoat which he had wrapped tightly around himself against the cold, although it looked somewhat the worse for wear since Wilf had seen him yesterday afternoon, soot-smudged and with a tear in one shoulder. And opposite the Doctor across a smoky fire that burned weakly in a battered metal rubbish bin, a second man sat on a haphazard mound of tyres, turned slightly away from the Doctor, his face concealed beneath the hood of a dusty black sweatshirt.

It was the second man who was the first to heed Wilf's approach. He raised his head in an almost animal-like movement, facing Wilf over the Doctor's shoulder and pushing back his hood to reveal bleached white hair. The Doctor spun around and his eyes widened at the sight of Wilf, who jogged over, words almost tumbling over each other from his mouth.

"I'm sorry, Doctor – I didn't know, and then Netty phoned this morning, and…oh, look at you, out here at Christmas…"

"Wilf." The Doctor's voice was low, and he threw a wary glance back at the second man who had also risen to his feet and was stepping slowly towards them. "Wilf, what are you doing here? Do Sylvia or Donna know where you are?" Wilf shook his head, eyeing the second man nervously. He appeared around the same age as the Doctor, thin but not as tall, dark shadows beneath his eyes, unshaven and with unkempt hair – he looked as though he had been sleeping rough for longer than a night. Wilf might have felt some pity for him if he hadn't at that point met the stranger's hazel eyes, which were fixed on him with an intensity that made Wilf decidedly uneasy.

"Who are you, then?" he demanded, trying to force his voice to sound more confident than he felt. There was a prickling at the edge of his subconscious – something about that man…

"Oh yes, of course – introductions," said the Doctor amicably, and Wilf turned his attention back to him, trying to quell the knot of foreboding that the stranger seemed to have tied around his mind. "Wilf, this is the Master. Master, this is Wilfred Mott, a good friend of mine." His face had taken on a cheerful grin and his tone was nothing short of casually polite, but Wilf couldn't miss how his eyes never left the Master and something in his posture spoke of a guarded alertness.

"Master? Of wh-"

"Human," the Master hissed. His glittering eyes locked onto Wilf's again, holding his gaze with an iron will. "I am _so_ hungry…" If it hadn't been for the Doctor's shout of alarm, Wilf didn't think he would have – _could_ have – moved; as it was, he stumbled back just as the Master lunged forwards, sharp features twisted into something almost feral. The Doctor darted forwards and grabbed the Master's arms above the elbows, pinning them behind his back with one hand and wrapping the other arm across his shoulders while the black-clad man tried in vain to lash out. A shadow passed across Wilf's eyes, and for several moments, his vision was lost in a haze of those almost forgotten nightmares, the reason he had sought out the Doctor in the first place.

"Stop, just stop!" the Doctor was pleading.

"…_starving_…" the Master snarled, struggling wildly against the Doctor's clumsy restraint.

"Please! Master, just look at yourself!" It could have been the sound of his name that caused him to freeze, breathing hard, fists clenched and whole body tensed; and then all the fight seemed to go out of him. The savage gleam in his eyes died and he slumped down in the grip of the Doctor who hesitantly released him. He took several steps back and sat down heavily on the tyres, pressing his fists against his temples.

The Doctor made a move towards him, but stopped uncertainly. Even after so many years as sworn enemies, seeing the Master in this almost pitiful state made the Doctor's hearts ache. So much had happened since a time he would have been able to put his arm around the other Time Lord's shoulder and comfort him, reassure him, encourage him that the pain and hunger – like everything else – would pass. He so desperately wanted to say something, do _anything_…but the Master was volatile, more unstable than the Doctor could ever remember him being; the last thing the Doctor wanted to do was to inadvertently provoke him.

"Oh, what's happened to you?" he sighed, shaking his head slowly.

"It was him!" Wilf's shaky exclamation behind him reminded him abruptly of the old man's presence, and he turned.

"Wilf! Are you all right?"

"It was him," Wilf repeated, blinking as though to clear his eyes and pointing at the Master. "Those dreams – we've all had them. Doctor, I _dreamed_ of him!" His eyes were wide and frightened and he began to back away; the Master raised his head with a derisive snort of laughter. The Doctor ran his hands through his dishevelled hair, tilting his face skywards.

"It's all right," he assured him eventually. The words sounded weak even as they emerged – and judging by the dismissive roll of his eyes, the Master thought the same.

"But why? Every night."

"I don't know, Wilf. I just don't know."

"Oh, they always trust you to have the answers, don't they, Doctor?" the Master smirked. "Look at him, grandpa – he doesn't even have a sonic screwdriver to his name now." Wilf's crestfallen expression was like a slap to the Doctor's conscience – the Master was right, people put so much trust in him, and now he couldn't even offer adequate words of encouragement. He began pacing up and down, frowning thoughtfully.

"When did they start, these dreams?" he asked.

"I…I don't know," Wilf stammered. The Doctor's forehead creased in concentration and he sat back down on the oil drum, hands clasped under his chin while he muttered thoughtfully.

"It's obviously something dynamic, something that's not fixed in time – not at one point along the causal nexus, anyway…the TARDIS could be made to do something like that, but they've taken it…"

"And doesn't he know?" Wilf inclined his head towards the Master, who shrugged. To Wilf's relief, the manic light in his eyes seemed to have faded – in fact, the pondering look he now wore could almost be compared to the Doctor's…until the man's concentration appeared to be suddenly broken by something unseen and he flinched. For a brief moment, Wilf could have sworn his flesh had become transparent, a glassy blueish glow with bare bones beneath. Unnerved, he raised one hand to rub at his eyes which were already aching with fatigue – but the Doctor seemed to have also noticed, judging by the anxious glance he sent the Master.

"Doctor?" Wilf began tentatively. "Doctor – is he…human?" It was the Master who answered, before the Doctor could even open his mouth.

"_Human_?" he spat venomously. "_I_ am a Time Lord." His eyes flashed dangerously, as if daring Wilf to challenge his claim. Sat there on the pile of tyres in his dusty black jeans, oversized red T-shirt and baggy hoodie, with several days' stubble growth across his pinched features and half-starved, hunched posture, the Master in fact seemed about as far from the...well, _lordly_, admirable Doctor as any other destitute. And yet, it dawned on Wilf that there was indeed more to him than the sense of déjà-vu that he knew was the nightmares. There was an aura of _presence_ about him, almost imposing; his eyes drew you in and held you. Wilf realized he was staring and tore himself away, turning his gaze instead to the Doctor, who nodded in confirmation.

"Well…well, that's great!" Wilf beamed. "He's one of your people. You don't have to be alone any more, right?" He held his grin assuredly – the Master might not seem to be entirely well, but Wilf knew better than anyone what the Doctor could do for people. When the Doctor hesitated in returning the smile, though, Wilf's confidence wavered and he found his eyes once more straying to the Master. There was still something familiar about him – had he seen him somewhere before?

"Oh, doesn't he wish?" The Master's voice had taken on a malicious edge and he was watching the Doctor out of the corner of his eye even as he addressed Wilf. "You've no idea how much he'd love to lock me up in his TARDIS until he's figured out how to _make me better_." His tone was rising, the hint of mania creeping back in, and the Doctor moved forwards, alert. "But you'd just _keep_ me – I'm just another one of your pets, aren't I, Doctor? Just an insane _pet_ who needs to be _cared for_!" He jumped to his feet, but the almost mesmerizing quality behind his eyes was failing as his voice cracked with hoarse anger and Wilf backed away, a cold sweat breaking out across his whole body.

"Wilf, you'd better go," said the Doctor quietly, taking a step towards the Master.

"I can't leave you here," Wilf protested staunchly.

"So what would you do with me then, _Doctor_?"

"This is different – I can't let you get involved this time," the Doctor replied, raising his voice over the Master's.

"But sir-"

"Donna needs you, Wilf, now…"

"_What would you do with me_?"

"…_go_!"

Eyes still locked onto the Master, Wilf's unsteady shuffling backwards became a stumbling run. The Master raised his hands, and at the sight of white hot sparks fizzing across his skin, Wilf abandoned all bravado and fled. The last glimpse he caught before the scene vanished behind the iron skip was of the Doctor unflinchingly approaching the Master, who gave a harsh, defiant shout and clenched his crackling hands into fists.

...

Failure was not an option.

It never had been – the Dalek mind could not even comprehend the concept. Even in the fleeting moment before death, it was still inconceivable that their foe had achieved a victory. They were the supreme race – they would never be defeated.

So the Master's destruction of one of their number was merely an inconvenient delay. They had analyzed the events of the previous night and quickly come to the conclusion that in his unforeseen state, the unstable Time Lord was simply too dangerous to risk another confrontation with. Self-preservation was more critical than ever.

Humans, on the other hand, were dispensable. Currently, the population estimate was at 6,727,949,338 and growing by the rel. While the overall plan would benefit from the highest numbers of the prolific species possible, there had to be some sacrifices before that plan could come to fruition.

The human female who had apparently initiated the humans' own search for the Master seemed to have taken on a single-mindedness uncommon in a species so prone to distractions. She had absorbed herself in papers and documents relevant to the Master and his time on Earth – particularly a period some years previously by her timeline when he had, according to records, attempted to achieve what the humans evidently regarded as power. She spoke of nothing else but the search for the Master, had taken no sustenance or nutrition all day, appeared to hear nothing unless it pertained to him…in fact, the Daleks had decided she was perhaps the most useful resource of any of the available humans. Focused entirely on the objective, she had sourced several humans with basic medical training out of those the Daleks had kept inside the mansion. There had been protocols in place for the intended capture of the Master before the Daleks had assumed control. With some adjustments to the humans' original plan based on archived information from the Daleks, an approach had been planned that could only succeed.

Preparation was underway; by the next morning, the Daleks would be in possession of the last crucial component of their schemes.

...

Wilf's hand was still trembling slightly as he turned the key and pushed open his front door. Once inside, he swung the door slowly shut behind him until it closed with a gentle click, shrugged out of his heavy anorak and turned, bending to unlace his boots. With his nerves already strung tighter than guitar strings, the unexpected sight of Sylvia standing at the kitchen door, hands on hips, startled him almost into toppling over as he removed his shoe.

"Oh…hello," he managed, trying to force a chuckle that wouldn't quite emerge.

"So, how's June?" Sylvia's tone was icy, sending a chill of premonition penetrating into Wilf's chest as he straightened up.

"Yeah, she's fine…"

"Yes, she sounded quite well when she phoned half an hour ago. Sounds like she's having a lovely time at Minnie's, in fact – wondered if you wanted to join them for a sherry."

"Oh…right…" Wilf lowered his head again, fumbling with his other shoe. There was a tense silence for some moments before Sylvia cleared her throat sharply and Wilf glanced up at her.

"Where were you, then?" she demanded. "It's Christmas, Dad – what could _possibly_ be more important than being with your family on Christmas Day?" When Wilf still didn't reply, her cold tone softened into something almost wistful as she added, "What do you have to lie to me about now?" The leaden weight of guilt that had settled in his stomach finally came to rest on his still-pounding heart, and before he could stop himself, he had opened his mouth.

"The Doctor's back," he blurted out. Sylvia's eyebrows shot upwards and she checked quickly over her shoulder that the kitchen door was still shut, and then her eyebrows lowered into a frown, eyes narrowed.

"How can you even _think_ of having anything to do with that man, after what he did to our Donna?"

"He saved her-"

"He erased two years of her life. _Two years_. And she doesn't even realize." Sylvia's voice broke with emotion and she had to avert her eyes, swallowing hard. "What does he want, anyway? Surely he doesn't need to have anything to do with _us_ any more."

"There's-" Wilf stopped himself – he had already let slip about the Doctor, there was no going back on that now, but telling Sylvia about the Daleks would achieve nothing except to cause panic. "He needs me – I've got to help him. There's this man with him…" Sylvia appeared sceptical and folded her arms.

"You're telling me the wonderful Doctor, who's apparently saved this whole planet, needs _your_ help? I would've thought he could look after himself. Besides, if he's got someone else…" Her words carried a touch of bitterness; Wilf knew what she was implying – _he's replaced her_…

"No – it's not like that," he protested. "This bloke, he's…he's not right. In the head." He tapped his temple, and then his eyes widened as something occurred to him – he _knew_ where he'd seen the Master's face before. "He's…"

"What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"…Harold Saxon," Wilf realized aloud. Sylvia snorted.

"Oh, now I've heard it all." Wilf opened his mouth, but Sylvia cut him off. "Listen here – whatever the Doctor's gotten himself mixed up in, you are _not_ getting involved. Do you hear me?"

"But the TAR-"

"_There_ you are, Gramps!" The door swung open at Sylvia's back – Donna, cheeks flushed and a margarita in one hand, placed one hand on her hip and sent Wilf a mock frown. "Come on, then – you're missing this big speech on telly. The American president – everyone's talking about it. End of this big recession, they're saying. Well, all right for him to say, isn't it, with his private jets and snazzy suits…be nice though, wouldn't it, few extra quid in the pocket?" Wilf and Sylvia exchanged glances, and then before Wilf could even make a move, Sylvia had snatched his anorak from the hook. She removed the car keys and his mobile from the pocket and followed Donna through into the kitchen.

"_Christmas_," she mouthed back at Wilf with a meaningful glare.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer:** Don't own Doctor Who.

Many thanks to Brownbug, iDestiny, ShirouHokuto and Ilssii-Koschei for the reviews of lovely enthusiasm for that last chapter! :D Much appreciated, as ever.

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The night wasn't as cold as the previous night the two Time Lords had spent in the derelict warehouse, but there was still a bitter winter chill in the air that seemed to have soaked into the ground and was enough to make the Doctor draw his coat around himself, longing more than ever for the ambient warmth of the TARDIS. He had set another small fire in a steel mesh basket from the construction site which served as a brazier to give off a glimmer of warmth, and he was feeding the fire from a pile of rotten planks that broke easily into kindling.

They had seen no sign of the Daleks all day, and the Doctor was becoming anxious. Daleks _never_ admitted defeat. There was no chance they had given up…so what were they doing? To add to that worry, he was becoming increasingly concerned about the Master. He could make out the shadowy figure of the other Time Lord pacing restlessly back and forth across the warehouse, stopping every now and then to catch his breath or regain control of the dissipating energy that glowed through his skin.

Spread across the ground before the Doctor were the half-melted parts of the sonic screwdriver, along with some bits of wire twisted into the rough shapes of rudimentary tools. He sat cross-legged, holding two parts in one hand and the single lens of his spectacles in the other as though it were a magnifying glass. The Master knew he was trying to repair the device, but had made no effort to stop him. They both knew that tracking down the Daleks and retrieving the TARDIS was now their only option – and besides, he no longer had the strength to retaliate.

The agitated, shuffling footsteps ceased and incoherent muttering reached the Doctor's ears; he glanced up to see the Master standing nearby with translucent, skeletal hands pressed against the sides of his skull.

"Master?" At the sound of the Doctor's voice, the Master tensed and shook his head hard. The escaping energy receded; he lowered his hands slowly, leaned back against the wall and slumped down to sit across the fire from the Doctor. In the flickering light, his eyes and cheeks appeared even more hollow, his whole frame painfully gaunt – it occurred to the Doctor that while he himself had withstood temperatures far below an Earth winter, the Master could well freeze in his weakened state, particularly in his T-shirt and light hoodie, and he placed the screwdriver and lens on the ground to begin removing his coat.

"I don't want it," the Master mumbled, anticipating the Doctor's intent.

"Suit yourself," the Doctor shrugged, picking up the screwdriver again and using his fingernails to twist off the insulation of a protruding wire. It would be futile to try and convince him otherwise – he knew the Master too well for that. "At least get some rest, though," he attempted, but as expected, the Master ignored him, staring into the dancing flames.

"I'm going to die, aren't I?" he said eventually. "After all this time…always finding a way, always one step ahead…the Master of life itself is just going to starve to death, homeless and destitute on Earth."

"Don't say that," the Doctor answered, replacing the screwdriver on the ground and meeting his old foe's eyes. "Something'll turn up. We wouldn't have got this far if we didn't have a bit of luck between us, you and me."

"Need I remind you, Doctor," the Master retorted icily, "that we have no TARDIS and no sonic screwdriver, and we are hiding from Daleks with no idea where they've come from or what they want. If this is your definition of luck, I can't imagine how you won the Time War."

"I didn't _win_ anything," the Doctor snapped, more forcefully than he had intended.

"Oh, no, of course not. I forgot – you destroyed Gallifrey and the Time Lords, but the Daleks still survived. Not much of a victory, is it?"

"Stop it." The Doctor knew the Master was trying to provoke a reaction, but the wound was still raw and, with nothing else left to hurt his lifelong enemy, he was rubbing salt in it.

"Did you watch them burn, Doctor? _So_ much power, held in your hand – to destroy two mighty civilizations with just…one…moment…"

"_Stop it_! Just stop it!" Before he could stop himself, the Doctor had jumped to his feet and taken several steps towards the Master. Teeth gritted, breathing hard with rage, he stood over the Master, who raised his eyebrows and sat back as if patiently awaiting the Doctor's next move.

_He's not well_, the Doctor reminded himself, forcing down the boiling, pent-up anger. _He doesn't know what he's saying_. Gradually, his jaw unclenched and he exhaled slowly, although his shoulders were still knotted with tension.

"I'm going to help you," said the Doctor calmly. Rather than the sarcastic comeback that he had expected, the Master lowered his eyes and wrapped his arms around himself, hunching forward and drawing his knees up.

"I'm so hungry…" He could no longer disguise the pain in his voice – the Doctor's hearts wrenched with pity, but he had never felt so helpless. After Wilf had left, the Master had unleashed his violent frustration and torment on the Doctor, who took the burning bolts of energy with an almost martyr-like air that only further infuriated the Master. Once the mania had passed, with his energy severely depleted, he had been left almost too weak to stand. Out of desperation, the two had ventured a little way into the outskirts of London and come across a charity organization handing out packages of hot Christmas food at a homeless shelter. Hooded and silent, the Master had followed the Doctor, sticking close while the latter took two packages with a heartfelt thanks and cheery Christmas greetings; they were barely out the door when he fell on the food in an almost animalistic frenzy, devouring both packages within minutes. It barely even made an impression on the unrelenting hunger that tore at him with every breath he drew.

For some time, there was silence, broken only by the popping of sparks that jumped from the meagre fire – and then a sound reached the Doctor's ears, so faint at first that he thought he could have imagined it, but growing by the second, a purring, thudding rumble. He glanced at the Master, whose eyes had taken on a glazed look as he withdrew into himself, absorbed in the pounding that resounded for his ears alone. The noise grew louder, closer, and a wave of trepidation hit the Doctor – he jumped to his feet, whipped off his coat and threw it across the brazier, suffocating the fire and plunging the warehouse into darkness. Jerked out of his reverie, there was a sharp intake of breath from the Master and a glimmer of blueish light as his unstable energy rushed through him.

The rumble crescendoed to a roar – the unmistakeable chugging of helicopter blades – and suddenly, the Doctor was dazzled by a glaring spotlight aimed through the collapsed portion of the roof to sweep across as much of the floor as it could reach. It fell on the two Time Lords only briefly the first time it passed, and then did a double-take, darting back to pinpoint them.

"Run!" the Doctor bellowed, shielding his eyes with his arm. The Master needed no encouragement, already scrambling to his feet and retreating with the Doctor towards the back of the warehouse, under cover where the shadows were thickest. The spotlight followed them as far as it could, but even through the psychedelic impressions the light had left swimming before his eyes, the Doctor could make out that the helicopter could safely descend no lower. They pressed themselves back against the wall, hearts in their mouths as the pool of light scurried back and forth across the floor like a cat deprived of its prey. Even when it failed to reach them and headed back outside, they couldn't allow themselves to relax – and were quickly proven right as the writhing shapes of several ropes were silhouetted momentarily against the spotlight. Several hisses were followed by the dull thuds of boots hitting the ground, and the Doctor's eyes quickly scanned the walls for an escape. The Master was already moving, heading along the wall opposite where the helicopter now hovered. His black-clad figure would have been almost invisible in the near-total darkness if it weren't for the persistent flickering of his life force dissipating through his skin. The Doctor caught up to him just as he reached a little alcove in the wall, one side of which was partially collapsed, leaving a gap that the slightly built Time Lord was already slipping through.

"Wait," the Doctor whispered. Pulling him back by the shoulder, he was shocked to feel under his hand how painfully thin the Master was becoming – he was wasting away, burning up more and more energy by the hour.

"Get off me," the Master hissed, pulling away but stepping back into the alcove to face the Doctor.

"Do you…" The Doctor paused, straining his ears – footsteps were approaching, shuffling across the uneven, rubble-strewn floor of the warehouse. "Do you think you can run?"

"What?"

"It's you they're after." The Doctor reached out and tugged the Master's hood up over his head, masking the giveaway glow of the uncontrolled energy. "If I lead them away, you can get out of here." The Master raised his head sharply, meeting the Doctor's gaze from under his hood.

"They'll kill you." His voice was toneless as he held the Doctor's eyes.

"No they won't," the Doctor replied confidently. "They're not the Daleks – they're _humans_, and I doubt they're willing volunteers. They won't kill another enemy of the Daleks unless they have to." The helicopter was moving again – they could both hear it ascending – and the hesitant footsteps in the warehouse were creeping closer.

"You're so sure, aren't you, Doctor? Would you really place your life in the hands of the human race? Even you can't trust them that much."

"Just run. Get as far away as you can. I'll…I'll find you when I get a chance."

"You really would, wouldn't you?" the Master said softly, eyes wavering in what might have been disbelief. Then he turned his head away, shoulders hunched. "I can't," he muttered.

"What?"

"I can't run away. Don't have the energy." The Doctor had hardly had a chance to take in the words when there was a shout from inside the warehouse.

"There!" Both Time Lords dodged back into the corners of the alcove – and not a moment too soon. Something struck the stone wall; a torch light flashed across the opening to the alcove, illuminating the object just long enough for them to see unmistakeably a tiny tranquiliser dart stuck in the crumbling concrete between two bricks, still quivering where it had been fired. The Master vanished through the gap in the wall, and the Doctor followed, holding his breath as he dived across the alcove and both torch lights swung around to fill the little recess.

Outside, back to the wall, the Doctor glanced at the Master, whose face was concealed beneath his hood.

"They're _hunting_ us," the Master spat, and in an instant, his voice had become dark with fury. "They're hunting us like _animals_." The roar of the helicopter blades rose and fell in pitch and the great machine moved into view, whipping the dust on the ground up into their faces as they set off running again. Hearts pounding, they raced along the edge of the warehouse towards the scaffolding at the far end, an iron forest with a low canopy of wooden platforms and tattered tarpaulin. Behind him, the Doctor could hear a scuffling and scraping as the men in the warehouse squeezed through the gap and began scanning the edge of the building with their torches. The beam of the spotlight from the helicopter moved more deliberately, working its way back from the scaffolding. It passed over them once, twice – and then ahead, the Doctor saw the Master let out a gasp and stumble against the wall. His right hand clutched at his left shoulder and ripped something out of the fabric of his sweatshirt; the Doctor reached him in time to see him fling a dart to the ground with a curse.

"Come on," the Doctor urged. Ducking under a low steel pole, they moved as one around the corner and into the protective shade of the scaffolding. Concealed behind a canvas sheet, they waited with bated breath while the lights flickered across the edges of the dense tangle of beams and poles. The Master's hand moved to his shoulder again and he glanced at the Doctor.

"You'll be fine," the Doctor assured him, wishing that his voice at least sounded a little more confident than he felt. "They'd have to have something pretty strong to knock out a Time Lord."

On the other side of their canvas shelter, the voices were growing closer, and the two began to creep forwards once again, treading cautiously to avoid the various scraps of rubbish and metal that littered the ground. Concentrating intently on skirting around a piece of rusting wire mesh, the Doctor almost failed to notice when the Master stumbled against a pole and only just managed to catch himself. Raising his head in alarm, the Doctor's foot came down on the wire mesh with a scrape that set his teeth on edge. From the edge of the scaffolding, he could make out the foot soldiers calling to each other, and hastened forwards.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," the Master answered shortly, still with one hand on the pole. The Doctor placed a hand on his back, meaning to gently nudge him forwards, but the other Time Lord nearly lost his balance and had to steady himself by gripping another pole with his other hand. Gaze trained on the Doctor's face, his eyes slid out of focus and he blinked hard several times. Each knew what the other was thinking: the Daleks had fought a timeless war against the Time Lords – basic Time Lord physiology would by now be a staple part of the complement of knowledge every Dalek was equipped with to destroy their mortal enemies. The Doctor shot a glance back at the advancing soldiers, and then snapped his fingers in front of the Master's eyes

"Come on, you can fight it." The Master drew a shaky breath, nodded and took an unsteady step forward, and then another. He shook his head slowly and swayed; hearts racing, the Doctor took his arm and slung it over his shoulder to half pull him through veils of cobwebs that adorned the rust-stained labyrinth. A faded billboard that had once borne the name of a construction company leaned upright against a welder's platform and the two took shelter behind it, hardly daring to breathe. The Master's whole body was trembling as the tranquiliser spread through his muscles – the Doctor put an arm across his shoulders and lowered him carefully to the ground, where he lay back against the scaffold supports, staring ahead with glassy eyes.

"Please, you've _got_ to fight it," the Doctor pleaded desperately. "Master, come on, stay with me…" At the sound of his name, the Master's eyes focused momentarily on the Doctor's face, but the Doctor could see he was rapidly losing the struggle to remain conscious. There was a stinging pain just above his shoulder blade - the cold needle of a dart - followed in quick succession by another in his side and two more on his thigh when he leaped to his feet and whirled around. Three dark forms advanced on him, black figures against the dazzling spotlight that lit their backs as the helicopter roared overhead.

"You don't have to do this," he called to them. "Whatever the Daleks have told you…they _will_ kill you." Either the soldiers didn't hear him over the helicopter blades, or their fear of the Daleks had made them deaf to his reasoning. Beside him, the Master finally slipped into unconsciousness…the soldiers were only metres away now, their outlines blurring and swimming before his eyes… A flood of despair overcame the Doctor, shattering the last remnants of his rationality.

"Leave him alone!" he bellowed, trying to step forwards in front of the Master – but the tranquiliser was already working its way through his veins, and his legs crumpled beneath him.

It all moved very quickly from that point – or perhaps it was the Doctor who felt that he was moving in slow motion, the world pushing itself through a treacle fog between his eyes and brain. The soldiers were towering over him; two moved past him to where the Master lay, knelt, checked his pulse, his eyes…they were leaving, three hazy shapes with one bearing a fourth in its arms shimmering and fading into the broken glare…he was alone…the thudding of the helicopter in his ears was dulled, the white light of its spotlight shrinking, diminishing, leaving the all-pervading blackness to sweep over him…


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer:** I is ownin ur Dr Who! :K

Thanks to Brownbug, ShirouHokuto, Ilssii-Koschei and MaxRide05 for the reviews! :D Yup, things are looking grim now... ;)

However, I'm very happy about all these lovely reviews I am receiving - nothing can kill that little buzz I get whenever one of you pops up in my inbox! :D And I'm so pleased that people are enjoying this fic! Sooo, without further waffling...

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_"…perhaps he's coming back…"_

Sat back in his squashy armchair in front of the television, Wilf barely heeded the kaleidoscope of colour on the screen. In his hands, the book he had picked up off the kitchen side had been open at the same page for well over half an hour now. His gaze had long ago drifted over the top of the book and now rested distantly outside the window, where somewhere in the inky midwinter night, the Doctor was hiding with "the Master"…and elsewhere, there were Daleks preparing to make their next move.

_"…I can't let you get involved this time…"_

His mind was racing in a dozen different directions, and he had never felt so _inactive_ in his life. Here he was, sat in front of "The Wizard of Oz" when a great man needed his help, whether he would relent or not. There was more at work than Wilf had initially realized: not just the Daleks, but now another Time Lord, clearly unwell in more ways than one, whom the Doctor had of course taken on himself the responsibility for…and now the TARDIS had been stolen and…

_"…he doesn't even have a sonic screwdriver to his name now…"_

"What's that you've got there, Mr. Mott?"

At the sound of Shaun's voice, Wilf's eyes flickered down to the open book in his hands and he realized he hadn't registered a single word. He turned it over and raised his eyebrows.

"Oh – it's this book Donna gave me. Joshua Naismith." He held it up for Shaun to read the title, "Fighting the Future"; Shaun sent his fiancée a bewildered look.

"What?" Donna retorted. "Don't you like it?"

"Well, it's by some businessman, isn't it? I've never even heard of him." Wilf had never been one to smile polite half-truths when it came to presents, but instead of the indignant pout he expected, Donna's eyes rested on the cover of the book for some seconds, clouding over as if touched by brief reminiscence.

"Oh…" she replied softly. Sensing the hanging pause, Sylvia lowered her own book. "Well, you never know, do you? Might come in useful one day…" Wilf watched as Donna seemed to hold her breath, and then shake herself, rolling her eyes. "You could've said so earlier, you know. I won't be able to return it now you've got all that turkey grease all over the cover." As she sat back against Shaun's shoulder, there was an almost inaudible sniff and Sylvia's face disappeared once again behind her book.

"What's with you and books, eh?" Shaun playfully elbowed Donna, and then dodged the elbow Donna aimed back at his ribs.

"What? Look who's talking – I _met_ you in a library, remember?"

"Yeah," Shaun laughed. "When you came in looking like you'd forgotten the day of the week and asked where to find some author I'd never heard of – not that Naismith bloke…'Lee Mc-something', wasn't it?"

"Honestly," Sylvia spoke up from behind her dog-eared paperback. "Who finds love in a _library_?"

Mind once again wandering, Wilf found his eyes running over the words on the open page of the book. It appeared to be an autobiographical section, detailing the vast properties and fortunes of the book's author, a billionaire known for his extravagance, particularly when it came to his spoiled only daughter.

...

Abigail knew instantly what had woken her when she raised her head, which had been resting on her folded arms on her father's desk. Her heart leaped into her mouth and there was a churning of butterflies in her stomach as her ears caught the rumble of the helicopter returning. It escalated, the helicopter swooping over the mansion and coming in to land slowly and precisely on the landing pad at the far end of the Naismith estate – and Abigail felt a wild urge to race across the sweeping lawns and through the sparse copse of woodland that divided the house from the section of land allocated to her father's – her – private army.

Strewn across the desk, a few fallen around her feet, were sheets of paper, newspaper clippings, photographs and a dog-eared book with post-it notes marking almost every page – "Kiss Me, Kill Me", the cover read. She had read them all, poring over every word, soaking up the information and still hungry for more. One name, one face, jumped out at her as her eyes skimmed across the desk: _Harold Saxon_, catching her attention and sending a little thrill through her every time she saw it. She honed in, drawn as if by an irresistible magnet, unable to look away – the face held her gaze, the name filled her every thought. _Harold Saxon_…

But this wouldn't do – it wasn't proper – she had left the study in such a mess; her father would surely scold her when he arrived. With shaking hands, she swept the papers into a haphazard pile and shuffled it until it fell into some semblance of order, and then she carefully set it in the middle of the desk, lined up meticulously parallel with the edge of the desk.

_Perfect – he'll be so proud…_

"…ma'am?" Abigail glanced up. A guard stood at the door, visor raised – she hadn't even heard him enter. "They've got him, ma'am." Abigail's breath caught in her throat and she could feel her heart pounding against her ribs. The guard was still speaking, but it was no longer of importance. Breath coming in quick gasps, she hurried past him and down the corridor.

It had all been arranged beforehand – she knew exactly where to go, and stopped short outside the door to the staff kitchen, where another guard placed his black-gloved hand over hers when she went to turn the doorhandle.

"Can't let you go in there, ma'am," he said firmly.

"I…I _have_ to see him…" Abigail managed to force out in a quivering voice.

"He's dangerous. We knew that before…before all this."

"He won't hurt me." Abigail held her head high, a smile turning up the corners of her mouth. Nervously, the guard shifted his weight from one foot to the other with an anxious glance at the heavy oak door at his back. He appeared to be studying her face, holding her eyes for slightly longer than she would have expected for a respectful member of her father's staff.

"There are precautions – I'm sure you understand," he persisted. Abigail was growing more agitated by the second – he was _so_ close now… Her hand moved towards the doorhandle again, but the guard stepped in front of it, pushing her arm aside.

"Ma'am, with respect…" he began uncertainly. "Perhaps you should get some rest. Everything will be secure by the morning." She felt a surge of indignation – _Daddy would never stand for this_ – and squared her shoulders, eyes flashing.

"How dare you!" she snapped, registering that the guard flinched – that was good. "You are a member of _my_ staff – now let me through. Or are your services no longer required?" she added; the man's eyes widened and he threw an uneasy glance down the corridor towards the main hall where the Daleks worked on their Progenitor. He shuffled reluctantly back from the doorhandle, which Abigail seized without hesitation.

"I can't be held responsible…" His voice was no longer important – nothing else mattered except what was contained behind that door…

The staff kitchen – smaller than most other rooms of the mansion and certainly paltry when compared with the main house kitchen – had been converted at short notice into a medical bay. On the countertops around the edge, small boxes and clear plastic bags were scattered, sterile syringes in sealed packs and other medical paraphernalia unfamiliar to Abigail spilling out onto the scrubbed stainless steel. Benches had been pushed back against the walls to make room – and it was what was now in the centre of the room that immediately demanded her attention.

It was _him_. Harold Saxon. Her eyes widened and she felt her heart skip a beat – he was _there_, in the room with her! He appeared to be unconscious and was being strapped into a steel-framed reinforced chair in a sitting position by two helmeted guards. Two more guards stood by, rifles trained on him, and bending over him were two medics in grey and black uniforms adorned with the red cross emblem, conversing in subdued voices, one holding a stethoscope to Saxon's chest. They raised their heads as Abigail entered, but she was hardly aware of their presence, eyes only for their prize.

His appearance had altered markedly from the man in her collected photographs. There was his bleached hair, for one thing, and the rough stubble that covered his cheeks; and he appeared paler and much thinner, almost emaciated. In her mind, Abigail overwrote her idea of the sharp-dressed politician with the image that was now burned indelibly into her memory: the unconscious, half-starved captive before her. Superficial differences…it was still _him_. The man she needed.

"We're going to have to ask you to leave," one of the guards with the rifles was saying, heading over to her, voice infiltrating slowly through a chink in her elated thoughts.

"No – I'll stay here. I'll just watch," she replied breathlessly, eyes never leaving the man in the chair. The guard turned back to the others, one of whom flashed an OK signal from behind the chair, and he shrugged, heading back to his position while Abigail remained motionless by the door. She watched avidly as the guards pulled hard at buckles on the chair, securing him firmly with tight straps across his chest, stomach, legs, arms and eventually forehead, raising his lolling head and fixing it back against the headrest. One of the medics, removing the stethoscope from her ears and hanging it around her neck, then took over, still under the watchful scrutiny of the armed guards. She raised his eyelids and shone a penlight into his unseeing eyes, checked his hands for any sign that the straps were cutting off his circulation, pinched the skin over his knuckles and then rolled up one sleeve of his black sweatshirt to slide a needle into his bony arm. Generally somewhat squeamish, having lived a sheltered and sterile life, Abigail nevertheless watched every movement intently as the medics set up an intravenous drip, disjointed fragments of their whispering reaching her ears occasionally.

"...severely undernourished, dehydrated..."

"...five days tops, they said - no-one could possibly end up in this state in five days..."

"...'not human' - well what the heck is he, then?"

Abigail ran her gaze up and down him once more, feeling a shiver starting deep within her chest. There had been so many tantalising rumours, most of which only grew wilder as more details emerged of Harold Saxon's deception and brainwashing of the world. But standing here just steps away from him...she could almost feel the _power _he held, as though it radiated from him. _Anything _was possible now...her world was complete.

The medics departed eventually, informing the guards that they would return in a few hours when the potent barbiturate tranquiliser that had been used in the capture would begin to wear off. So, Abigail waited. Perched on the edge of a rickety wooden dining chair, she sat directly opposite him, back ramrod straight so as to be slightly lower than eye-to-eye with him where he sat restrained in his own chair.

Accompanied by a slow smile which spread across her face, a warm feeling of contentment grew steadily in her bones. For the first time in nearly two days, she was at ease where she sat.

By the time Saxon showed signs of stirring, a watery early morning light was sending its pale fingers between the blinds over the high, narrow windows. His fingers twitched slightly, wrapping around the edges of the armrests that his arms were secured to, and Abigail, who had slumped down in her chair, eyes dry with exhaustion, jerked upright. At the back of the room, the two guards had removed their helmets and chatted nonchalantly for some time before slipping into a weary doze at the monotony of their task, but at the sudden motion from Abigail, they snapped to attention, cocking their rifles and taking positions either side of the restraint chair. One pressed a button on a pager at his belt.

"Careful..." the other cautioned. "I've seen some of the UNIT files on this one - don't trust _anything _he does." Saxon's eyelids fluttered and he flexed his fingers cautiously, as if every movement pained him. Signalling the arrival of one of the medics, the pager sounded, four high-pitched beeps that repeated twice. Saxon's lips parted and he drew in a shuddering, hoarse breath which quickly deteriorated into shallow, rapid hyperventilation; the medic, who had entered through the door at Abigail's back, hastened forward to loosen the straps around his chest and stomach. His breathing slowed and deepened, and gradually, he half opened his eyes.

He had met her eyes. Abigail was certain of it. On legs stiff with pins and needles, she rose and took a step closer.

"Better fetch the tin cans," the first guard muttered; the second nodded curtly and departed, cocking his rifle and snapping into a smart march.

Saxon's eyes were following her motion now as she crept closer. There was a sharpness to his gaze, a wary alertness like a cornered wolf, confident in his superiority but curious to see what his pursuers' first move would be. He inhaled deeply and his tongue snaked out the corner of his mouth to slowly lick his dry lips, eyes fixed intently on Abigail.

"I'm starving..." he croaked.

"You'll be given food soon," the medic spoke up, and he visibly tensed, gripping the armrests of the restraint chair urgently. His eyes flickered down towards his bare arm with the intravenous drip. "Saline and glucose infusion," the medic explained. Saxon narrowed his eyes at her.

"Flesh..." he hissed. "Raw, hot fat..._so much_...have to eat...more and more and more..." His voice was growing louder and more frantic; transfixed, Abigail remained where she stood, just an arm's length from him. "...moreandmoreand_more_..." Suddenly, there was a rush of light that seemed to emit from his own skin, a surge of energy that pulsed through him. His words caught in his throat and Abigail let out a cry of horror at the nightmarish vision of a bare skull that his pale face became. Skeleton hands clenched themselves into tight fists...and then it was gone and he was left white-knuckled, a sheen of sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, the tight bands that held him in the chair now seeming to support his weight more than restrain him.

A blur of motion at the corner of Abigail's vision must have caught both their attention, as Saxon once again raised his eyes and peered past Abigail to where the two Daleks had entered the room, followed by a guard and, trailing along curiously, the Vinvocci technician Addams. Through half-lidded eyes, he observed the Daleks' gliding movement across the kitchen. Unable to move, the only sign of his discomfort as they drew close was a discernible increase in the tension of the straps around his body - his face remained impassive.

"You are a prisoner of the Daleks," the gold Dalek stated, its eyestalk trained on Saxon's face.

"Really? I hadn't noticed," Saxon retorted, his breathing once again steady as he eyed the creature.

"You will serve the Daleks," it continued as if Saxon hadn't spoken. At this, Abigail felt a well of indignation rising, and before she could stop herself, she had opened her mouth.

"He will _destroy _you!" she burst out. "The Secret Books of Saxon spea-"

"Silence!" the green Dalek barked, whirling to face her while the gold one's eyestalk never left Saxon's face. Struck dumb, frozen on the spot, Abigail's chest rose and fell as she met its gaze with as much defiance as she could muster.

"You can't-" she eventually managed to force out, but was cut off by Saxon himself.

"It means shut up. You have no idea what you're talking about, Earth girl." Obediently, Abigail pressed her lips together and stepped back. Memory and situation were losing definition…

_"You just leave everything to Daddy"_

…he would fix everything, of course.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer:** Doctor Who is belong to teh BBC...

James Birdsong - wonderful? Aww, thanks! ^_^

Also a big thanks to KlinicallyInsaneKoschei, Ilssii-Koschei, MaxRide05, ShirouHokuto, Brownbug, iDestiny and Son of Whitebeard for the reviews and letting me know who's still reading. :D Great to see you all - more than I expected, I must say!

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"…ctor? Doctor, can you hear me?"

A voice, becoming gradually clearer, as if tearing tiny holes in the black, velvety blanket of unconsciousness… It took the Doctor a few moments to take in what it was saying, and then another sluggish several seconds to place the voice itself.

"Mmmnnngillfff…?" he groaned, trying to move his fingertips. They still seemed to be attached, as did his feet – that was a start, even if he didn't quite have control over them.

"Oh, Doctor – thank goodness." Wilf's voice sounded as though he were about to collapse from relief. "I found your coat in the old warehouse, just over there, but I couldn't find you anywhere, and then I saw you lying here, and I thought…oh, Doctor, sir, I thought you were…" The Doctor forced his eyes open, trying to twist his numb mouth into a reassuring smile. A blurred shape was bending over him, which resolved itself into a face creased with concern. Flexing his hands painfully, he began to pull himself upright – and then four twinges, like swollen bruises on his shoulder blade, side and leg, brought the events of the night rushing back, jolting him awake.

"The Master!" he gasped, wincing at the protest in his aching limbs as he dragged himself into a sitting position. "They took him! I have to find him."

"What – that man from yesterday?" Wilf held out a hand to assist the Doctor to his feet. "Who took him – the Daleks?" Not even noticing the proffered hand, the Doctor scrambled up using a scaffold pole for support. There was not a trace of evidence of the drama that had taken place the previous night, just the four tranquilizer darts scattered in the dust where the Doctor had been lying. Possibly as much a consequence of having spent the night sprawled inelegantly on the frost-hardened ground as any traces of the tranquilizer remaining in his system, his whole body felt stiff and sore, joints cracking with complaint at the hasty movement.

"Not quite," he said, squinting around him as he struggled to recall details from the previous night. "They were humans, but they must have been working for the Daleks to know how to drug a Time Lord…" His head ached, a stinging pain that jabbed just behind his temples. What had been the pulsing, thudding roar that echoed in his memory as his eyes fell on the propped up billboard that he and the Master had taken cover behind?

"But...but what kinds of people would work for Daleks?" Wilf sounded as much disgusted as bewildered.

"Scared people," the Doctor replied gravely. "They're not the ones at fault here, Wilf. They're just as much the Daleks' prisoners as the Master."

"Well what do the Daleks need them for? I mean," he hastily backtracked, "don't they usually just...you know..."

"Oh, Daleks are clever." The Doctor's voice became grim and he leaned back against the poles, rubbing his head with both hands. "The ones you saw - they were a fully-fledged Dalek empire. They had the power and numbers to obliterate entire dimensions. Total extermination." An involuntary shiver ran through him at the memories. He, too, had witnessed first-hand what they were capable of during the Time War. "But beneath all that is the drive to _survive_. It defines them; they believe that the only way to guarantee their species' survival is to become the dominant life forms in existence. Without the numbers, if there's only a few...drive them underground and they become _clever_. They can bide their time and they can plan... They want the Master alive; those humans must just have access to the resources they need to catch him. Drugs, dart guns..._helicopters_," he realized.

"Like some kind of...private army," Wilf wondered aloud.

"Yes! Exactly!" Wilf drew a breath before speaking again, hesitantly, scratching his elbow as though embarrassed.

"It's said there's no such thing as coincidence," he muttered, and the Doctor's eyes darted back to his with a tensing of his shoulders that he could not disguise.

"Wilf, do you know something?"

"Just something I heard...sorry - it's probably nothing," Wilf apologized. "It's just..."

"I knew someone once who used to say that." The Doctor averted his eyes and Wilf thought he saw him swallow hard. "She was usually right, too. But you, Wilf, of all people...so many coincidences around you. What is it? Anything at all. What have you seen, heard?

"Well, it's probably a long shot," Wilf began uncertainly. "But I think I might know where the TARDIS and your friend are..."

...

From the first drumbeats of consciousness as it sliced its way into his throbbing skull, the Master was almost tempted to draw back, retreat into blissful insensibility. It would be so easy - and he could do it, had done it once before – just to drag the smothering quilt over his aching body and then...nothing.

_No!_

No - he wasn't going to run from the Daleks again. Even if the creature's proximity brought him out in a cold sweat, even if meeting the glassy stare of the eyestalk set his whole body trembling as repressed memories of the horror they had wrought on him in the Time War were dragged vividly to the surface of his mind, even if their harsh voices jarred in his head, deafening even over the drums.

"We have analyzed all available technology," the gold Dalek was grating out. "We have the ability to transmit a signal into the brain of every human in current existence."

"So what do you need _me_…" The Master trailed off, remembering the Doctor's words – the Ood, the 43rd century…

_"…shouting into people's heads right across time and space."_

He raised his eyebrows as realization dawned on him. "Ohh… '_Current_ existence'. You don't know how to send it through time."

"It is unknown Time Lord technology," the Dalek confirmed. "You will explain, Time Lord." Near the door, unnoticed by the other occupants of the room, Addams stifled a curse and gripped something in her pocket.

"Suppose there's no point in telling you lot to use my name," the Master replied, an air of feigned boredom lacing his voice. He closed his eyes and a lazy smile spread across his face, which Abigail mirrored.

"Explain!" the Dalek screeched. "Explain or you will be exterminated!"

"You can't do that," said the Master smugly without opening his eyes. "You need me, don't you?"

"There are alternatives. We will use the Doctor."

"And what if you can't? What if it's got to be me? Will you risk it? You can steal all the time travel technology you like, but you'll never be able to escape a paradox." He opened his eyes and allowed himself to relish the mystification that had descended on the faces of the humans that surrounded him. Perhaps that was what the Doctor enjoyed so much about the company of his human companions… The Daleks also appeared to be having second thoughts, he fancied, as they paused for the space of an interminable breath. Matters of time were not innate to a Dalek. They could have had the technological capability to equal any Time Lord, but the very nature of time itself which came as instinct to a Time Lord would always be beyond the emotionless creatures.

"You comprehend the paradox," the Dalek said eventually. "But you are weakened and broken. You cannot sense its source."

"What would you know?" the Master sneered. "Time is my birthright – I am a Time Lord. I have looked into time itself – and heard its call. It's still there, calling to me…"

"Do not lie, Time Lord." Without warning, the green Dalek now slid forwards and began extending its plunger towards the Master's head. "You are dying. You will reveal the location of the Doctor – and then you will be exterminated. You are of no further use to the Daleks." The Master felt his hearts accelerate as the plunger drew closer. He could make out twinkling pinpricks, almost like stars, deep within the opaque cup, and recognized the technology. A primitive brain scan – little more than a simple lie-detector already used on Earth, all it could do was record the neuroelectrical pulses of the brain and feed them into a computer which would analyse the information and translate it into data. It could detect brain activity and intelligence as well as basic emotions and, on occasion, particularly vivid images or memories. Presumably, they had already used the technology to detect his existence from elsewhere in time and tracked it back to him.

As the plunger drew closer, the Master found himself testing his bonds, at first cautiously and then more urgently as the edge of the suction cup brushed against his forehead. The Dalek was within a finger's breadth from his arm now, and he tasted blood in his mouth – he had bitten his lip as he struggled against the straps that held him immobile in the chair.

It occurred to him the moment the circle of blackness passed across his eyes that his fear could have been exactly what they sought. The plunger withdrew, glimmers of light in the cup dimming as the information was processed – and then it advanced again, this time with the tiny lights almost dazzling him as they filled his vision.

Raw, undiluted terror flooded his mind – the Dalek was relaying back to him his own neural activity, magnified ten times, a hundred times, over. It swept across him, drowning all sensation in a burning wave that crashed across him with all the ferocity of boiling lava. He was blind but for the images that now reared over him – there were the Daleks descending on the Cruciform, Daleks now impossibly surrounding him, towering over him, pressing in until they penetrated his skull and filled him, the Dalek Emperor itself, a magnificent tyrant, a gilded nightmare. And he was deaf but for the discordant chanting of innumerable Dalek voices that roared from his memory…

_"…EXTERMINATE, EXTERMINATE…"_

…and the drums, ever-present, still pounding their unchanging rhythm as they had done for centuries. He could smell and taste bile and blood on his breath as he writhed against the vicious, suffocating straps, trying in vain to curl in on himself.

_One two three four…one two three four…_

_…Doctor, help me! Please, help me!_

_"…EXTERMINATE, EXTERMINATE…"_

_One two three four…one two three four…_

Abruptly, the tide of terror receded, leaving only the drums still beating out across a desolate wash of calm. At first, the Master wondered if he had lost consciousness, until he opened his eyes and his gaze settled on the two hulking metal shapes. Nausea rose in his throat and he swallowed hard, mouth clamped shut, breathing slowly through his nose. The plunger had pulled back and both Daleks had fallen silent, eyestalks turned towards each other. Abigail had retreated to a corner of the kitchen, hands pressed over her face, stifling dry sobs; the Vinvocci woman had gone; the medic, pale with shock, was attempting to gather several tiny glass bottles together with shaking hands.

Suddenly, the gold Dalek spoke again, its voice startling the medic into dropping the bottles.

"The Doctor will not suffice."

"Wha…what?" the Master stammered, despising the tremor in his own voice.

"A temporally transcendent signal has been detected in your brain, Time Lord. Only you can ensure the Daleks' existence in this time stream."

The Master's mouth went dry, and he was daring to imagine even before the green Dalek replayed back to him a sound more familiar than any other part of himself…

_One two three four…one two three four…_

"It's…real," he choked – and then all effort to retain some sort of composure was lost and he was laughing uncontrollably. "It's _real_!" He threw himself against the straps that restrained him, eyes alive with a wild light as he stared directly into the eyestalks of the impassive Daleks. "They thought I was _mad_! Oh, Doctor – if you could be here now!" Blood streaked around his wrists as he thrashed against the bindings until they bit into his skin, but he paid no heed. "It's calling me!" Nor did he notice when the medic hurried forwards and slipped a needle into the intravenous line in his arm. Within moments, his struggles became more feeble, words slurring into nonsense until his whole body went slack and he slumped back in the chair, eyeing the Daleks dazedly.


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer:** Still waiting for that call from the BBC...still daydreaming, in other words...still don't own Doctor Who... ~_~

Big thanks to Brownbug, ShirouHokuto, MaxRide05, TheMasterOfTime, Son of Whitebeard, Ilssii-Koschei and iDestiny for the awesome reviews! :D Have some Dalek-shaped biscuits, everyone! Sorry they're a bit burnt - I borrowed a ray gun to cook them but the Dalek wouldn't tell me how to work the thing.

* * *

"…so Netty's sister thought they were. But it was that book, really. Donna gave it to me, for Christmas."

The Doctor glanced around in surprise at the sound of Donna's name. He had only really been half-listening, absently thumbing through the book in his hands while he watched the outskirts of London speeding past through the car window. A prickling at the corner of his mind was his sense of the Master's whereabouts, growing steadily stronger as they moved further North along the coastline and the houses became more sparse.

"Why this book?" he wondered aloud, flipping it closed. At the sight of the cover, he started and raised his eyebrows with renewed astonishment at Wilf. He couldn't fail to recognize the man in the photograph, Joshua Naismith – he was unmistakeably the man the Ood had shown him in their vision.

"Well, it says that bloke's got his own private army – he's a billionaire, you know. And then you said the men who took your friend had helicopters and stuff, and I just thought…"

"No – why did Donna give it to you?"

"Dunno really." Wilf slowed to take a corner, frowning thoughtfully. "She just seemed to…to have a sort of…funny moment. Like she knew she'd forgotten something… Maybe it's nothing. Just imagining things…no – this is probably silly. We should turn round."

"No – this is right," the Doctor assured him hastily. "I've seen this man, this Joshua Naismith. I was shown him by the Ood – perhaps they were showing Donna too, just reaching into her subconscious, all the way back-"

"Isn't there anything you can do for her, Doctor?" Wilf interrupted. "She seems…these moments, she just seems so sad, so…lost…"

"I'm sorry, Wilf." The Doctor had to avert his eyes as he spoke, a hint of a waver creeping into his voice. "She can never re-" He broke off and his breath caught in his throat. Inexplicably, a sense of urgency gripped him – and was it laced with distant pain and terror? That sense of the Master's psychic fingerprint was growing more definite, and for a moment, he could have sworn he had heard…

"That way." The car lurched as Wilf spun the wheel in the direction the Doctor pointed and they turned down a narrow country lane bordered by neatly trimmed bramble hedges. Hearing the strained tone to the Doctor's voice, Wilf's eyes flickered to his face and saw the Time Lord's youthful features taut with anxiety.

"Your friend…" Wilf began tentatively.

"He's alive," the Doctor replied shortly. His eyes were darting to and fro, but Wilf had the sense that he was guided by something other than sight and depressed his foot harder on the accelerator.

...

It wasn't much of a job for a trained soldier. In fact, the young man wasn't sure he'd swept a floor since he was a cadet – that was what cadets were for, wasn't it?

Best not to think about what had happened to the few cadets that had been in the process of being trained for the ranks of the Naismith military personnel.

Best not to think about anything now, really. He had been told of the impassive, total objectivity that a good soldier could take with them into battle. Get too involved and it would overwhelm you – take a step back and you would be shot down in friendly fire.

So, he had to remain practical. People would die, but his job was to continue to obey orders, not to hold funerals.

After all, there was no going back now.

Back and forth, back and forth, the triviality of his task was lost on him as the broken glass and twisted shrapnel moved into an ordered heap in the centre of the tiled mosaic floor.

Rapid footsteps passed behind him, and before he could stop himself, he had raised his head and met the eyes of that alien technician woman as she hurried through the foyer and into the hall. She paused as though studying him for the briefest of moments, and then continued across the hall to the glass nuclear containment booth, where the other green-spiked technician waited, leaning wearily against the glass. Something in the woman's stance held the soldier's attention – something about the way she slowed as she drew close and passed the alien man, something in the tenderness of her expression and the faint smile that crossed her lips. And then as both aliens' gazes moved to the locking system of the containment booth, the soldier felt his shell of forced numbness cracking before he could catch himself and his heart twisted with empathy. He leaned the broom against a desk and began to walk briskly over to the containment booth. The woman had her back to him, but turned when the soldier reached her and hastily stuffed a handkerchief into the pocket of her lab coat.

"You…uh…you must be a long way from home, huh?" the soldier said, fidgeting awkwardly.

"Several light years." The woman nodded with a watery smile and another lingering glance at the alien man in the sealed compartment of the booth.

"And you two are…"

"He's…" The woman's voice cracked and she lowered her head with a sniff. "He's all I have – in _any_ galaxy. Still feels like we're light years apart now, though…" She trailed off and raised her hand to the glass that separated her from the other alien. He blinked at her hand, and then as though it were an afterthought, hurriedly raised his own hand to hers, fingertips still divided by several centimetres of glass.

"Look – why don't you…" The soldier shot a furtive look over his shoulder, but the hall was still deserted apart from the three of them. "Why don't I have a turn in this thing? Give you two a break. Not like I have anything else to do now." Instantly, the woman's expression brightened, eyes lighting up with hope.

"Really? Would you?" she beamed.

"Yeah." The soldier shrugged, trying to force his voice to sound casual, although he was feeling all his pent-up emotion from the past few days welling to the surface like a balloon swelling at the base of his throat. He thought of life, of death, of love…and he wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. "Go on – go have a coffee together. Not the staff kitchen, though."

"Oh, thank you!" The woman opened the door to the second glass compartment and ushered the soldier inside. "You press that button to unlock the other side. Don't worry about any of the controls – we'll be back in a minute." Once the door swung shut at his back, he obediently pressed the large red button he had been shown and felt a little surge of joy when the other door swung open, releasing the alien man. He could hardly blame them for not sending him a backwards glance as they eagerly vanished together through the door to the basement, which was closed behind them.

Down in the basement, Addams pulled her arm out of Rossiter's as soon as they reached the bottom step, and began rummaging in her lab coat pocket. Rossiter was grinning from ear to ear, blushing emerald green right to the tips of his spines, and he shuffled a few steps closer. When Addams held out her hand towards his, he was almost too flustered to stand still, and seized her hand with both of his, pulling her towards him. To his bewilderment, she slapped something into his palm and turned on her heel, striding down the length of the basement to a control panel where she began hastily setting dials. Stepping up behind her, Rossiter extended his hands towards her shoulders.

"Oh, get off," Addams snapped before he reached her, and he jumped back. "Harold Saxon is a Time Lord."

"Wha…?" Several thoughts jumped to the surface of Rossiter's mind, and confusion and indignation fought for first attention. "But…but he's so…you can't be…"

"For goodness sake!" Addams burst out, whirling on him. "Daleks, and now a Time Lord. Haven't you heard of the Time War?"

"B-b-but…" Rossiter was still squirming. "But that's just a legend, isn't it?"

"The Time Lords were supposed to be a legend," Addams retorted. "Anyway, legend or not, I'm not risking my spines around here for one more minute. We're leaving."

"What about the Gate? All the computers? The nuclear bolt?" Rossiter protested.

"Hang the Gate," Addams answered firmly. "It'll take too long to prepare everything for transport back to the ship. If Control want it back that badly, they can come and get it themselves. They know where it is. We are not getting involved in _anything_ between Daleks and Time Lords. Besides," she added, wrinkling her nose in disgust, "it's got all that human DNA all over it now." Not only that, she thought to herself, but with the modifications the Daleks had made to the Vinvocci technology, only two computers remained in control of the Gate. If one was shut down before the other without transferring all control to the second, the systems would power down instantly, preserving the data as a safety precaution to protect the Gate from damage. However occupied they were tormenting the captured Time Lord, the Daleks were sure to notice if that happened.

Rossiter lowered his eyes to the object that Addams had placed in his hand – his access tag for the teleport. Resigned, he swiped it across a scanner on the control panel. Together, the two Vinvocci raised their wrists and pressed a button on the face of the wristwatch-like devices they wore – and with more than a trace of relief passing across their faces, they vanished in a flare of light.


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer:** I now own (well, use) a Dalek-themed Firefox persona...but nothing else...

Wow - getting heaps of hits now! Thanks to everyone who's reading, for giving me a chance and sticking with it past all the repeated canon stuff earlier on; especially the people who've added to favourites and alerts. And, of course, the biggest thanks to everyone who's letting me know what they think as we go along - this time, Ilssii-Koschei, TheMasterOfTime, ShirouHokuto, Son of Whitebeard, Brownbug, MaxRide05 and iDestiny. :D

Right...where did we leave our Lord and Master...?

* * *

The Daleks must have given instructions by now, but the Master couldn't for the life of him recall what they might have said. Even their abrasive metallic voices had blended into the hum of sound that bustled around him like a hive of bees. Humans moved busily to and fro, and he observed their movements for as long as his eyes could follow them, sliding from one to another…what were they doing, he wondered briefly? Over it all, the drums had dulled to a muted thudding in his ears. Maybe they were no longer just in his ears – the drums were real, he reminded himself.

_They're real…they're real… _He replayed the thought in his head, stretching the words to try and make them fit with the drumbeat,_ one two three four…one two three four…_but unable to keep time, it faded away and he allowed his eyes to slip shut, lulled by the steadiness of the rhythm.

"…given him too much?" With the concerned voice came the sensation of a pinching on his arm and then hands gently slapping his cheeks until he opened his eyes. "Mister Saxon, can you hear me?" The grey-clad medic was bending over him, worriedly peering into his eyes. At the periphery of his vision, he could make out the motion of several helmeted guards, and the medic's figure moved back and to one side. Fingers were moving across the bare skin of his arm now – there was a sharp stinging sensation as the intravenous line was removed and the tape peeled off, but he barely reacted except to allow his eyes to slide to his left.

From across the room, another figure was approaching, and with some effort, he forced his leaden eyelids to remain open. Through the haze, he observed as the human girl who had spoken earlier drew close, coal-black eyes fixed on his face. The guard who had been kneeling at his left straightened up and he felt the straps around his arm and leg fall away, and then the strap around his chest begin to loosen as the guard's fingers worked at the buckles behind the chair.

With a serene smile, the human girl stepped up beside the Master's shoulder. She was moving slowly – almost cautiously, but with no fear – more like she was being drawn inexorably towards him. Suspicion was prickling at him, but trying to focus his eyes felt like oil on water.

A moment later, he realized that her hand was being raised towards his face; he tried to turn his head away, but the strap around his forehead was still secure even though those around his body had now been removed.

_Get your…hands…away from me…_ The words were slow to drag themselves to the surface of his drug-fogged mind and didn't quite make it as far as his mouth – and then he felt her fingertips brushing back his damp hair from his sweat-slicked forehead.

_"Harry?" The sweltering heat that radiated from the monstrous furnaces was almost suffocating. Lucy's slender fingers reached out and caressed the side of the Master's face, cool against his burning skin, but the gaze of his hazel eyes seemed to pass straight through her. "Harry…you said you were taking me for our honeymoon." Suddenly, he met her eyes, and with a boyish grin, turned and bounded up a rickety, welded staircase against the wall behind them. There was a spring in his step as he emerged onto a steel-railed balcony, and from his vantage point, he could make out the approaching lines of shambling figures._

_The only light came from the machines themselves – it reflected orange-white in the Master's glittering eyes, it shone off burnished brass boilers and iron rivets, it illuminated the last remnants of humanity as they doggedly staggered towards the waiting machines. In the glowing mouths of the machines, pistons pumped, spewing forth coils of scalding steam that swallowed the desperate, pitiful humans who ascended the roughly hewn steps._

_Oh, if only the Doctor could see this! The glorious irony of it all, the inevitable fate of the human race. Nothing and no-one could save them from this – from themselves. The Master threw back his head and laughed over the roar of the grinding machines._

_And then the screaming began. It was like the screeching of steel on steel, the anguished cries of human beings gradually becoming indistinguishable from razor-like blades that blazed and sliced…_

_"Harry, we can go now!" Breaking through the spellbinding vision of Utopia, Lucy's voice came as a desperate plea. Sweat dripped into his eyes as he lowered his head and looked down on his now-wife, still dressed how they had left the wedding reception._

Lucy was _dead_! The Master recoiled at the delicate touch, his hearts pounding, sending a rush of blood to his head.

Abigail's whole body was quivering when kind but firm hands gripped her arms and pulled her back from Saxon. His eyes rolled back in his head, and as the final straps binding him to the chair came loose, he slumped forwards. Reacting quickly, the medic and the guard caught him by the shoulders, easing him back into the chair while the medic hurriedly checked his vital signs, tilting his head back. There was a glimmer of blue, a flicker of energy turning his skin translucent, and the medic pulled back with a startled cry – but Saxon seemed to recover at this. Once again, his eyes moved about the room, although his pupils were still dilated and he focused only momentarily on the medic's hand as she passed it in front of his face.

"The Daleks said to get him to the hall," the guard reminded her, and she nodded uncertainly.

While Abigail watched, the two carefully hoisted Saxon to his feet, supporting him with their hands under his arms. Moving in a stupor, he gave no resistance as they guided him slowly forwards, his feet shuffling unsteadily on the smooth lino. They steered him across the kitchen and through the door, Abigail following close behind.

In the main hall, the Daleks had stationed themselves in front of their Progenitor, where they remained while the guard and the medic gently lowered Saxon into a chair at a desk before one of the two computers that now controlled the Gate.

"Don't know how they expect him to work in this state," the medic muttered, lips pursed thoughtfully.

"He's some kind of genius, isn't he?" the guard replied in a doubtful undertone. "Anyway, you said yourself he's not hum-" Sensing the approach of the two Daleks, he fell silent and stepped aside to allow them to move towards Saxon and the medic. There could be no doubt that Saxon had registered their presence, as he raised his head sluggishly to face them.

"You understand the purpose of this technology, Time Lord," said the gold Dalek. It took Saxon several seconds to take in the words before his eyes shifted to the Gate at the far end of the hall, and then the screen on the desk before him, and finally back to the Dalek. His mouth moved soundlessly and he inclined his head in the barest hint of a nod.

"You will repair the Gate," the Dalek instructed. "The paradox must be averted – and then you will be the means of the birth of a new Dalek Paradigm." Saxon's eyes widened slightly, lingering on the Progenitor beside the Gate. However, his focus was quickly lost and his eyelids began to slip shut; the medic, whose hand had remained on his arm, squeezed his shoulder.

"If you refuse," the green Dalek put in, "you will suffer." Saxon's head tilted again in acknowledgement, and then jerked upright and turned towards the screen. Apparently satisfied, the Daleks glided back to the Progenitor, leaving the three humans with Saxon.

There was a rapping on the glass of the nuclear containment booth – a young soldier was helplessly beckoning to the guard, who threw a last backwards glance over at the Daleks before moving away to join him. Without a moment's hesitation, Abigail pulled up another chair and positioned herself beside Saxon at the desk with her elbows resting on the polished wood.

"Miss Naismith?" the medic asked cautiously, and Abigail glanced up in surprise at being addressed. "Are you staying here?"

"Of course," Abigail answered with a contented smile.

"O.K…" Chewing her lip anxiously, the medic studied Saxon's pale face, and when she spoke again, her tone was troubled. "You realize he's heavily sedated, don't you?" When Abigail nodded, she continued, speaking slowly and clearly. "If you stay with him, you _mustn't_ let him fall asleep – do you understand? Make sure he stays awake. I've left some things out in the kitchen that I need to put on ice, but I don't know how long the sedative will take to clear from his system. So – and this is _very_ important – if it seems to be wearing off, call for someone _quickly_."

...

"My word…" Wilf breathed in awe at the sight that met him. The Naismith estate was even more magnificent than he had pictured from what he had read in the foreword of Joshua Naismith's book. Everything – from the wide boulevard of neatly pruned trees that bisected velvety, manicured lawns to the ornate stonework that he could make out adorning the doors and windows as he and the Doctor drew closer – spoke of extravagance beyond value. The house itself, a red brick country manor with flawless architecture that suggested no expense had been spared on aesthetics, appeared outwardly about as far from a Dalek base of operations as Wilf could imagine.

And the whole place was deserted. There was not a soul in sight, and not a sound to be heard – the estate grounds were as silent and dead as if the Daleks had simply exterminated everyone and abandoned the site to the ghosts.

Wilf and the Doctor had parked the car behind a thick hedgerow and were approaching on foot. Staying pressed close against any wall or hedge they could find, every sense was alert for any sign of movement from the mansion. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called, and an answer from a nearby tree sent Wilf's heart leaping into his mouth. Whipping his head around, he nearly stumbled into the Doctor's back – the Time Lord had come to an unexpected halt, and the pair hunkered down behind a low stone wall.

"What is it, Doctor?" Wilf whispered urgently, catching sight of the Doctor's face which had become grave.

"Wilf, you have to stay here," said the Doctor, meeting Wilf's eyes in all seriousness.

"What? But…but you can't go in there on your own!" Wilf spluttered. Misreading the Doctor's hesitation, his voice dropped to a plaintive protest. "I'm not stupid, you know. I know what those Daleks can do."

"There's something I haven't told you." The Doctor's eyes were wavering as he spoke, voice dark and laced with bitterness. "There was a prophecy…I'm going to die." Stunned into silence, Wilf could only stare in wide-eyed disbelief and dismay. "And that's fine, really – if I can stop the Daleks first…" The Doctor's voice cracked and he swallowed hard. "But you've got Donna, and Sylvia-"

"And Shaun," Wilf put in, forcing a smile. "Donna's getting married in the spring – I never told you."

"There, see? You've got a family, and they need you. I won't let you die with me today."

"I'd be proud to die for you, sir, you know that." Wilf drew himself up staunchly, but the Doctor averted his eyes.

"Don't say that," he snapped forcefully. "Don't _ever_ say that." He drew in a long, shaky breath and ran a hand through his unruly hair, and then his voice softened. "I'm sorry, Wilf."

"I'm sorry too, Doctor," said Wilf quietly, firmly. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you do this alone. I'm going to stand by your side – whatever happens – and I'd like to see you try and stop me." The Doctor couldn't help but smile at the old man's steadfast determination, and despite all his reservations, there was gratitude behind the smile.

"Right. Let's find out how to get in, then."


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer:** File last edited on 4th March 1601, this properties panel says. Well, I _did_ say it takes me a while to get around to these things! Sooo, from the days when science _was_ fiction, I bring you... (Sorry it's a bit of a short chapter this time, by the way. Hopefully it's meaty enough - and the next one ought to be _really_ long, so that'll make up for it, right? :) )

A big thanks and edible Churchill's-cigar-replicas to Ilssii-Koschei, ShirouHokuto, MaxRide05, James Birdsong (ooh! Wonderful again! ^_^), Brownbug, x-Avarice-x (who's just started reading and sent _four_ reviews, as well as checking out my other fics - you're awesome! :D ) and utahraptor.

* * *

**Earth, 1941:**

The very air was grim in the Cabinet War Rooms. The heat had never seemed so stifling, the haze from Churchill's cigars had never stung the throat so much, the atmosphere had never weighed so heavy on their brows as when the stench of betrayal hung in it.

It had been an hour now – an hour since the men had burst open the door to the research room and found it bare. Without explanation, without even an indication that anything was amiss, the scientist responsible for the Ironsides had vanished, taking all his work and the two remarkable machines with him.

Blanche had felt sick with anxiety all morning, ever since she had risen at the dawn's first light to simply stand on her doorstep, bathed in the rosy glow of a sunrise that lit the rainclouds on the horizon a blazing orange.

They could have been burning and she would still be ignorant.

As the sun had crept higher, steadily pushing back the indigo of the night sky, she could almost have imagined she could hear the distant rumble of engines, propellers whirling into life, the roar of aircraft taking off one by one and turning East.

Answering the relayed messages that crackled into her ears as she stood behind the great table in the centre of the room, she had felt somehow as though the glaring lights above her head were dimmed, and she was standing in a shadow cast by a raincloud hovering just over her head. And then, at the news of the Ironsides' disappearance, it was as if the raincloud had burst and doused her, the shiver that ran down her spine like an icy trickle of water.

Edwin Bracewell, the scientist had said his name was – although the men were now saying it was probably more like "Herr Verräter". Blanche still couldn't quite believe it. She pictured the scientist's kindly, unassuming smile, his gentle voice laced with a Scottish twang, and she felt hollow. Had it been planned? What kind of a man could have moved among them so easily, blended so seamlessly as to even treat some of them as friends, and be deceiving them all along? Had he a heart of steel?

Blanche knew now, more than ever: war was corrosive, could tarnish any heart, could have eaten into solid gold like a malevolent rust – like the caustic, putrefying disease it was. How long, she wondered, before it robbed her, too, of anything but hatred and fear?

Lost in her wandering thoughts, it was a few minutes before she registered that the rapid commands in her ears had faded to hissing, white noise. She removed the headset and began mechanically sorting through printed telegrams on the table. Across the other side of the crowded but unusually subdued room, raised voices could be heard, and Blanche found herself listening, her attention gradually straying from the papers in her hands.

"Sir, they will strike over a known base of Nazi operations in just a few hours from now!" one man was insisting. "They are an elite trained squadron – I doubt the Nazis could take them down with twice the men we have in the air."

"Air marshal, you've seen what those weapons are capable of." Churchill's tone was grave, the cigar between his stubby fingers burning down unnoticed.

"Conditions could not be better – this is the clearest opportunity we've had yet," the air marshal argued.

"If the Nazis have the Ironsides, conditions are neither here nor there," said Churchill.

"So you intend for me to pull them out?" The air marshal sounded disgusted. "Squadron 41 are not cowards – they will fight like Englishmen."

"And to what end?" Churchill growled. "They will be annihilated."

"I will not see my men turn and run from those Nazi dogs," the air marshal spat; Churchill's expression darkened with sudden fury and he ground the cigar down hard on the table.

"And _I_ will not see those brave men die for recklessness and stupidity!" he roared. "My authority will overrule yours if need be, air marshal – now withdraw Squadron 41 before their blood stains your hands." The air marshal's bushy moustache quivered and his eyes, blazing, swept the room and fell on Blanche, who started and snatched up the headset.

"Well, go on, woman – you heard," he snapped. With trembling hands, Blanche began to rearrange the plugs for the communications in and out of the War Rooms and spoke breathlessly into the microphone, heart fluttering wildly.

"This is…this is the Cabinet in London. Squadron 41, deployed at dawn, ordered to withdraw on authority of Prime Minister Churchill. Repeat – with-…withdraw Squadron 41."

...

**Earth, 2009:**

_Perched on the edge of a high, wooden stool, the little girl could see the screen if she craned her neck around to peer past her father's broad shoulder. On the desk in front of her, a book was spread open, but her bright, ebony eyes were following the letters that were scrolling across the screen, although she understood very few of the words. She leaned forward across the desk, chin in her hands and both elbows resting on the heavy, polished oak. Her feet swung back and forth, keeping time with the steady tapping of her father's fingers on the keyboard._

_"Daddy?"_

_"Yes, darling?" Her father's typing ceased and he turned to smile warmly at her._

_"Why won't you tell Mr. Danes what you're writing about?"_

_"Because…" Her father sighed deeply and leaned back in his high-backed leather chair, folding his arms. His eyes returned to the screen, studying the text intently – and then flicked back to the girl's inquisitive gaze briefly, before returning to the screen. "Because it's our little secret, Abigail. Just for us."_

The rows of symbols scrolling across the screen were just as incomprehensible as ever to Abigail. They whirled and spun in and out of focus, sometimes lining up and sometimes blinking out like lights. Harold Saxon had begun working eventually, although his movements were still lethargic and clumsy, his fingers often hitting several keys simultaneously, causing the luminous green symbols to flash crimson or rotate unpredictably. Every now and then, his eyelids would droop, his arm would slide forwards and his head would drop; Abigail would reach out and shake his shoulder, and he would pull himself upright.

The medic hadn't returned, although the Daleks had remained in the hall, gliding soundlessly between the Progenitor and the Gate. They had been moving wires and frames for several hours now with meticulous care as though the Progenitor were the most precious thing in the world. The frame had now been dismantled and rebuilt, but the device itself – the strange capsule with the columns of lights down its sides – was suspended in the middle of the Gate, and the control panel affixed to one side of the archway at the front of the Gate.

Beside her, the tapping fell silent, and Abigail's hand again moved to Saxon as his thin shoulders slumped forward. This time, though, something was different – this time, she thought she felt his bony arm tense through the cloth of his black sweatshirt…and she could have sworn his glazed, hazel eyes met hers for a moment. Then, they drifted back to the screen and Abigail followed his gaze.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt a little fluttering in her stomach, like a single, lone butterfly. At the bottom of the screen, below the rows of glowing green symbols, was a single line of text in tiny letters which were erased at a single keystroke the moment she had taken the words in:

I HAVE A TASK FOR YOU, GIRL

Realizing her hand still rested on Saxon's arm, she gave a brief squeeze, feeling the corners of her mouth curl up in a smile as the thrill of conspiracy ran through her. Letters began to appear as he resumed typing, painfully slowly, each line appearing only long enough for Abigail to read.

UNLOCK THE DOOR TO A CELLAR OR BASEMENT NEAR HERE

TELL THE DOCTOR AND HIS HUMAN THAT THE GATE USES A MEDICAL TEMPLATE TO TRANSMIT A BIOM

This line was erased before completion and quickly replaced.

IT COPIES OVER POPULATIONS

I AM THE ONLY ONE KEEPING TIME

He hesitated for a long time then, his shaking fingers hovering over the keys, before the final message was typed and deleted almost before Abigail had finished reading it.

TELL THE DOCTOR TO HELP ME


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer:** Wants... 0_0

BB - yup, I do indeed love hearing from readers - many thanks for letting me know you're around and enjoying the fic! :D

Also thanks to the usual suspects - x-Avarice-x, MaxRide05, Ilssii-Koschei, ShirouHokuto, TheMasterOfTime, Brownbug and utahraptor - you've been such a great bunch of reviewers to have along for this fic! :D

* * *

The Doctor was beginning to wonder if he had perhaps taken the sonic screwdriver for granted all these years. With their backs to the wall, he and Wilf were skirting around the edge of a courtyard, which was as silent and empty as the rest of the estate grounds that they had passed through. Various side doors and back doors opened into the courtyard, but so far they all seemed to be locked, and the Doctor was growing increasingly frustrated. He probably could have picked a lock the old-fashioned way, but whether it was impatience or an increasing sense of urgency the closer they got to the Master, he kept moving, tugging at every doorhandle they came to.

One wary eye on their surroundings, Wilf trailed along after. They reached a gap in the wall and cautiously peered around the corner, but there was no sign of movement, so they furtively scuttled across the gap and ducked into the shadows of a brick archway.

"Doctor, there's something I've been meaning to ask you," Wilf whispered, stepping to one side of a low, wooden door recessed into the wall. "That man, your friend – is he…was he…oh." The door had opened easily when the Doctor turned the handle.

"Either someone knew I'd be coming this way…or we're in luck." Throwing a confident grin over his shoulder, the Time Lord stooped to enter, Wilf following close behind.

Descending a short flight of stairs, they found themselves in a long, narrow basement, dimly lit by the glow of several computer screens and a faint blue luminescence emitting from the far end. Wires trailed along the floor and up the walls to meet in a tangle above their heads, giving the impression of vines and creepers in a jungle of technology.

"Ooh. Well, this isn't Earth technology," said the Doctor, stopping short and raising his eyebrows. "Not the Daleks either, though. So what _is_ it?" Scientific curiosity apparently aroused, the Doctor rummaged fruitlessly in his pocket for his spectacles, bending over a screen. Lost for words, Wilf simply stared around the room, marvelling. "This bit's a teleport – that's easy enough," the Doctor was saying, more to himself than the awestruck Wilf. "No co-ordinates plotted – not unless you want to end up somewhere in orbit. I wonder if the Master would know wh-"

"You must be the Doctor." Startled, they whirled around, Wilf nearly knocking his head on another screen mounted on the wall. From out of a stairwell in another wall, a rectangle of light appeared as a door was opened, and a figure stepped into view – a young woman with dishevelled hair and weary, dark eyes, who stood out in the gloom in her fuchsia-pink dress and cardigan.

"Yes – yes, I'm the Doctor. Hello." The Doctor quickly recovered his composure and took a step towards the young woman, but Wilf narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Do you know where the Master is? Is he all right?" The woman drew herself upright, pride bringing a glow to her cheeks as she answered.

"Harold Saxon is Master of this house."

"Yes, but where is he?" the Doctor insisted, not unkindly but with a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. "What about the Daleks?"

"They don't know I'm here," the woman replied, leaning back with one hand on a desk and raising her head. Her voice had taken on an almost childlike quality. "It's our secret. Harold Saxon wants you to help him, Doctor."

"Ah." The Doctor's eyes widened with what Wilf thought could have been surprise, and he lowered his voice, moving closer to the woman and speaking in the hushed tones of conspiracy. "Tell me everything he said." Perplexed but relieved that she didn't intend to give them away, Wilf strained his ears to make out her voice.

"He is the only one keeping time." The Doctor took in the words with a contemplative nod, eyes distantly pensive, and for some seconds, there was silence.

"What? What's that mean – the only one keeping time?" Wilf demanded, baffled – it sounded like it could have been a riddle, or it could have been the nonsense of a madman, and having encountered the Master in person, Wilf wasn't sure which was more likely.

"Did he say anything else? What about this?" the Doctor persisted as if he hadn't heard Wilf, gesturing to the screens.

"This is the Immortality Gate. He's repairing it – he says it copies over populations."

"Copies over populations?" the Doctor repeated, turning his head to study the alien technology once again with a puzzled frown. The screens displayed several rows of symbols like spiked wheels, nearly filling the screen except for the bottom row. "That's not good. That's very, _very_ not good – not in the hands of Daleks. And I'm no expert…well, I am, but I've never seen this before in my life…but if I'm not mistaken, I'd say…" As they watched, another symbol whirled into focus in the bottom row, and the Doctor suddenly leaped back as if he had been electrocuted, drawing in his breath sharply. "It's nearly finished!" The last word was almost shouted over his shoulder – he darted past the woman and made a dive for the door she had entered through, hurdling the steps two at a time, and Wilf followed without a moment's hesitation. Breathless, he struggled to keep up with the Doctor, who raced ahead, tan coat flapping behind him as he practically leaped around corners and they hurtled down plush-carpeted corridors, walls lined with portraits and vases on pedestals.

Wilf barely noticed the finery. He was puffing for breath by the time he rounded the second corner – and skidded to an abrupt halt to avoid colliding with the Doctor. The Time Lord was standing tall and defiant, facing square-on the solid shape of a navy green Dalek that blocked the corridor. It didn't even occur to Wilf to turn and flee – he stepped up beside the Doctor, feet automatically coming together in stalwart military precision.

"The Doctor and his human companion will witness our victory," the Dalek announced.

"That sounds like pride to me," said the Doctor coldly. "You know what they say about pr-"

"Silence!" the Dalek barked. "We cannot fail, once our existence in this time stream has been ensured. You will witness, Doctor, enemy of the Daleks – and then you will be exterminated." It slid back several feet and the Doctor strode forwards and down an adjoining corridor, eyes trained ahead. Behind, he heard Wilf's footsteps moving steadily and firmly, and the faint hum of the Dalek gliding after them.

"What's going on, Doctor, sir?" There was barely a hint of trepidation in Wilf's voice, despite his confusion, and the Doctor felt a twinge of admiration for the old soldier.

"There's a paradox," the Doctor explained quietly as they walked. "There's a temporally transcendent telepathic transm-" Wilf blinked, and the Doctor quickly backtracked. "Those dreams you've been having – they're a signal, broadcast through time and space. That's why the Daleks are here – they found out about it and traced it. It's still possible for it to be sent, so the Daleks are still here. If it couldn't be sent – if it became impossible – they would never have known and couldn't have come here to this point in time."

"And Har- Your friend, the Master?"

"He's the only one who can send it, apparently." The Doctor's voice became brooding again as he sank into thought. "He's the only thing holding the paradox in place…"

_"…he is the only one keeping time…" _– there had to be something else behind the words, though, something that still eluded the Doctor, but was hovering tantalisingly out of his reach. Something else the curious wording could signify…

"So if something happened to-" Wilf broke off as it dawned on him with a lurch of guilt where his train of thought was headed. The Doctor registered the words and nodded expressionlessly. That _couldn't_ have been the Master's intent – although it meant, he realized, that the Daleks couldn't risk killing him. Yes, that was more like the Master – self-preservation first and foremost. Look after number one.

As they passed through high, oak doors into the foyer of a grand hall, bright in the midday sun that shone through a domed glass ceiling, Wilf was alarmed to notice the corner of the Doctor's mouth twitching in a suppressed smile.

Now they were proceeding straight down the middle of the hall, the Dalek gliding past to join another at the far end, where they positioned themselves either side of a towering electrical archway – the Gate, they guessed. At the sight of the device that had been placed inside the tunnel of shimmering panels, the Doctor's hearts grew cold – he recognized the Progenitor instantly, a capsule containing pure Dalek DNA – and nearly stopped short when another piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

_"…it copies over populations."_

"It's a template…" he breathed. "But they _can't_…"

"Can't what?" Wilf turned to the Doctor, fear finally breaking into his voice when he caught sight of the horror on the Doctor's face.

"They're going to rewrite the DNA of the entire human race… Amplify the power of that Gate and they'll have six billion Daleks…just like that…"

"Affirmative," the lead Dalek confirmed. The Doctor and Wilf stopped beside a desk, which Wilf found himself leaning against as he reeled in shock, shaking his head in disbelief. The Doctor was silent, and it occurred to Wilf with a stab of despair that perhaps he had finally admitted defeat.

The Doctor's eyes, however, were sweeping the hall. He took in a glass booth against one wall – a nuclear bolt power source, by the looks of it – the two screens, one behind Wilf on the desk and the other across the hall; and the slouched, white-haired figure sat behind the other screen, head turned away as though he hadn't even noticed the Doctor's presence. As the Doctor's attention fell on him, the tapping of the Master's fingers on the computer keyboard accelerated slightly and the Daleks' eyestalks swivelled to fix on him.

The Doctor's mind was still racing when with a final, almost triumphant, keystroke, the final symbol on the screen swelled into focus, filling the screen. A rippling in the air like a thick, roiling heat haze inside the Gate was accompanied by a humming from the wires, announcing without a doubt that the technology was now fully functional.

"You will now ensure our existence in this time stream, Time Lord," the lead Dalek commanded, and there was a visible change in the Master's posture as he raised his head, a clear gaze meeting their glassy blue one. Wilf only just caught a brief glance that passed almost imperceptibly between the two Time Lords as they turned their heads slightly, simultaneously.

"You really should have used my name, you know," he said calmly, pushing himself to his feet. "See, there's two Time Lords in this room now – how do you know it won't be the _other_ who answers?"

"Oh – you want _me_ to try and work this Gate of yours?" the Doctor spoke up, the picture of wide-eyed, innocent surprise. The Daleks' eyestalks swung to face him in alarm as he continued. "Well, that's probably not a very good idea – see, I've never seen this technology before." His forehead creased and he raised one finger to his mouth, nibbling at the edge of his fingernail thoughtfully – and then reached out and pressed several keys, apparently at random, on the keyboard behind Wilf. "I've no idea what it does – you never know _what_ I might- Wilf, get down!"

"The Doctor will not interfere!" the Daleks screeched. "Exterminate!" Sizzling beams missed Wilf and the Doctor by inches as they threw themselves behind the desk.

"Ooh, close – better luck next time," came the Master's voice, laced with mirth – peering from behind the desk, shaken, Wilf was incredulous to see the other Time Lord with laughter in his eyes, watching with folded arms as the Daleks advanced on the desk where Wilf and the Doctor sheltered. Breathing hard, the Doctor raised his head cautiously, squinting to make out a flashing, red-bordered rectangle on the screen on the desk.

INVALID COMMAND. ASSIGN MASTER OPERATING CONSOLE

_It would be, wouldn't it_? the Doctor thought to himself with a wry smile as his hand crept over the top of the desk and deftly tapped out a basic sequence of keys – transferring control of the entire Gate to a single computer, the one which the Master stood behind. Then, wordlessly, he rose into full view of the two Daleks.

"You cannot prevent our victory," said the golden-bronze one, its ray gun pointed straight towards the unflinching Doctor's hearts.

"Doctor – what are you-" Below the desk, the Doctor's hand gestured sharply and Wilf clamped his mouth shut, scooting back from the desk at another hasty sign.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the Master called from across the hall. Once again, his fingers began expertly darting across the keyboard, and the green Dalek spun around, aiming its ray gun in his direction.

"Do not touch the machine," it ordered, and then when the Master paid no heed, its voice rose in volume and urgency. "Stop! The Master is sabotaging the Gate!"

"Who, me?" the Master grinned. Both Daleks aimed their ray guns. "We go back a long way, the Doctor and me…"

"Ex-" they began in unison.

"…and he'll _always_..."

"-ter-"

"…use my name…"

"-min-"

"…but you never know when I might…" He depressed several keys at once and the Doctor tore his eyes away from the shining metal of the gold Dalek's ray gun to glance at the screen on the desk before him.

"-ate!"

"…delegate." A fraction of a second before the Daleks fired, something flashed up on the Doctor's screen; a surge of adrenaline seemed to jumpstart his reflexes and he moved almost before his brain had had a chance to connect the final pieces of the puzzle.

100% COMMAND TRANSFERRED

Unable to kill the Master, the green Dalek shot at his computer; he leaped back in the nick of time, shielding his face as the machine exploded.

NO BACKUP AVAILABLE

The Doctor's hands reached out and snatched up his own computer off the desk, extending his arms and ducking to one side. It was already too late for the Dalek to adjust its aim – it had fired, and the white-hot laser beam struck the computer, shattering the light plastic and incinerating the circuits inside.

...

Down in the basement, Abigail huddled on the bottom step with her knees hugged tightly to her chest. Her father's voice echoed in her mind,

_"…you just leave it to Daddy…"_

…and she had – her whole, unwavering, undivided trust had been placed in the hands of…a face was swimming before her memory – a gaunt, pallid face, cheeks rough with stubble, exactly how she remembered it…but there was still _something_ missing, and other fragments were beginning to echo from the most distant confines of her memory as if shouting from behind a locked door…

_"…it seems help is at hand…"_

_"…we call it the Immortality Gate…"_

_"…it's all Abigail's idea."_ She remembered a beam of unearthly energy, the outline of bare bones in an electric blue glow…

A red light pulsed at the periphery of her vision and she raised her head. The screens, whose wires coiled into a fat rope that snaked through a hole in the wall to connect with the two computers in the main hall, were now illuminating the darkened basement in blinking red – the pale green symbols had vanished and an alert now flashed on an opaque background:

CONNECTIONS TERMINATED. NO DATA AVAILABLE

...

Hands cut and bleeding, the Doctor staggered back from the sparking remains of the computer. The faint hum that the Gate had been giving off was escalating as power surged unregulated through its systems. Along the length of the wires that had connected it to the computers, fuses blew with a series of sharp pops, and in the glass containment booth, the nuclear bolt began to emit a high-pitched whine as it accelerated. Tendrils of electricity crackled across the panels of the Gate, melting through the delicate connections as the intricate circuitry quickly overloaded – until a shower of orange-white sparks burst from several points in the gaps between the panels. Fizzing where they landed, they quickly ignited the already overheated insulation around the attachments to the Progenitor. In a matter of seconds, it was over and the blue-green glow of the Gate died, damaged beyond repair.

Time itself quaked. The two Time Lords felt it like a physical blow – the Doctor stumbled, gripping the edge of the desk; the Master, still somewhat dizzy from the sedation and relentless hunger that ached in the pit of his stomach, was knocked to his hands and knees. Around him, the winds of time began to build until they were felt by everyone in the room, sweeping outwards as the broken paradox began to unravel the loosely knitted-together timelines of those mortal enemies, the Time Lords and the Daleks – a pale imitation of the furthest edges of the colossal war that had once entangled them.

Watching the panic of the two Daleks as they grasped their defeat, the Master felt a warm glow of satisfaction. Pity it wouldn't last, he thought – this time, there would be no-one at the eye of the storm; no-one to remember. Still, no harm in enjoying his victory while it did last… Clinging to a marble column at his back for support, he let out a shout of triumphant laughter – and as they were pulled irreversibly back into their own timeline, he made sure the last thing the two Daleks saw before they shimmered and flickered to nothing was his eyes glinting with manic delight.

Steadily, the rushing filled his ears – never drowning out the drums, though…nothing could, he knew that now, least of all time itself… But another sound was fighting to be heard, and he became aware that the Doctor was shouting his name and had forced his way across the mosaic floor to reach the desk just metres away from him. Behind them, Wilf and the soldiers in the glass booth blinked out like deactivated holograms.

"It was the drums, wasn't it – keeping time?" The Doctor's voice was barely audible over the howling wind. "It's some sort of temporally transcendent psychic marker – if you'd stood in that Gate, it wouldn't just have sent your impression across Earth, it would have sent it through time."

"And right across the universe – wherever the human race spread itself." The Master could already feel the inexorable pull of time tugging at him. "It's real, Doctor…took you how long to figure that out?"

"I wouldn't know," the Doctor replied, and there was a gleam in his eyes. "I wasn't the one keeping time." He grinned, and for just a few moments, all the centuries of bitter hatred meant nothing as the Master returned the infectious smile, before the Doctor faded into the swirling currents of time.

The Master hung on for a little longer, struggling for breath as he resisted the unwinding and reversing of the causal nexus. Alone in a blurring, failing timeline, he began to feel apprehension creeping over him. His past was more uncertain than the Doctor's – he had been brought forth from death this time, and logically, he knew his resurrection was in no way connected to the arrival of the Daleks…but time was such a fragile web and the threads were so easily snapped.

Even if he could be certain of his eventual return to life, the very thought of letting go sent a cold chill of fear through him. The idea of just vanishing into nothing – like the Daleks and the Doctor – it was oblivion, it was a kind of death in itself, and it terrified him.

But as the wave finally broke over him and he felt himself ripped away from the last threads of the timeline, he was glad he had allowed himself that brief sense of unity with his ages-old nemesis, the mutual connection that still bound them together after all these years – because there was one small consolation.

At least the Doctor would never remember.

* * *

**THE END**

By Aietradaea

* * *

**Author's notes:**

And there we go. All done and dusted.

Well, it's been an interesting ride, this one. It started out as a bit of an experimental fanfiction which I wasn't sure I'd even upload. Had some fun with points-of-view, retelling "End of Time", trying new characters, writing Daleks, twisting canon into timey-wimey knots... Well, I'm glad I stuck with it - it was immensely satisfying to write and share - and I hope you've found it worthwhile to read, even if it _did_ turn out to be...well, another "Fanfic That Never Was", a PBDC - Potentially But Dubiously Canon...

Concrit is always welcome - as are comments about what you enjoyed, of course - or anything you want to say, really. And while I'm at it, a bit of shameless self-promotion never hurt - I've got plenty of other fics to keep you entertained until my next major project! Said next major project will be a long sci-fi mystery called "A Matter of Time", featuring Eleven, Rory and Amy. Might be a while off, but keep an eye out for me...

A big thanks to everyone who's read to the end! May you never be exterminated! :D

-Aietradaea:)


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